By Any Other Name
by mkaz
Summary: Three women are found dead in Oregon, no leads. It's up to Claire and her reluctant new partner, Sylar, to solve the mystery. A continuation of The Thin Line.
1. Chapter 1

He had had a long day. Of women walking past him, taunting him without mercy. Blondes. Brunettes. Red-heads. Tall women, with long legs. Short, dainty, petite women. Women in short summer dresses, women in sleeveless button down shirts that showed off their sculpted arms. Breasts, asses, hips, thighs, lips, eyes. It was just too much.

And they all were so mean to him. When they'd pass him, he'd hear them laugh. He knew that they were laughing because he could never have them. Their bright eyes would crinkle from the joy of their mockery. They were cruel, vampy, vicious bitches. But he knew how to deal with them. He knew how.

At last he got home, gleefully shutting the door behind him and locking it tight. He giggled in delight. He carefully put his work bag on his dining room table and fished out a folded piece of paper. With giddy, trembling fingers he unfolded the paper and looked at what was written.

In his own, neat handwriting, it read, Lori.

He closed his eyes and said the name out loud. "Lori. Lo-ri. Lor-ee." He liked to play with pronunciations. It warmed him up for his work.

Then he thought back on his day. One after one, the decorated trollops crossed his path. He thought that he wasn't going to get a treat today until one came up to him and asked for directions. He quickly assessed her. Long, chestnut brown hair, blue eyes, creamy white skin. She wore a bright red (the color of the harlot) suit, and high heeled stilettos to match. As he helped her, she flipped her hair back and smiled, and he knew all the while that she was secretly taunting him in her mind. She was looking at his short, pudgy body, his broad, ugly features, his plain, ill-fitting clothes and mentally denouncing him.

"Thanks!" she said brightly (and deceitfully) after he was done. She thought that she had been able to mock him and use him all at once, but he'd show her.

"You're welcome ma'am. And yes, are you new to the building?" he asked, innocently.

"Why yes I am. I'm Lori," she said, shaking his hand. He took it, briefly savoring the smoothness of her hand, and then quickly noted her name on his little pad, once she walked away. And then, carefully, he folded up the paper and waited for the end of the day with impatience.

Now there was only one dilemma: what to do with dear little Lori? This was the only part of what he did that annoyed him a little: so many things to choose from. At last, he thought of what to do: Lori seemed to love red so much: red suit, red shoes, red panties, he was willing to bet. What if he made it so that she was red all the time, forever?

"I bet I still have some red paint left," he said cheerfully to himself. And he did. He took a can of Glidden off of the shelf, found a paintbrush, and with several adroit movements, painted the entire scrap of paper, front to back, with a deep crimson. He held it away from him, looking it over, and was very pleased. He knew he was going to be in a good mood tomorrow for work.

Only five miles away, a young woman named Lori was settling down to watch some TV after a very long day at her new job. She had a TV dinner in the microwave, and was just about to call her best friend and tell her all about what her first impressions were of working for a publishing company. But then, when she reached over to the phone, she noticed her left hand was red. Curious, she brought her hand close to her face and looked it over, front and back. Had she accidentally touched wet paint? Then she looked at her at her right hand, and saw that it was red too. Lori gasped in confusion, and ran to the kitchen to try to rinse it off. Running, she looked down and saw that her bare feet were also a deep red.

"Oh my God!" Lori cried. "What's happening to me?" Coming to the sink, she frantically tried to wash the color off of her hands, but to no avail. Not only was the color not coming off, but it had spread to her arms. She ran to her bedroom and looked in the full length mirror, and the sight made her scream. Her neck, her face! It was all a deep color of red. She took a breath in, and realized, with horror, that it was commercial paint; she could smell the chemicals. They seemed to be lining the inside of her nose, running down her throat, burning her insides. She gave a choking gasp and crawled to the phone in her bedroom, dialing with shaking fingers.

"911. What is your emergency?" a female voice asked on the other line. But by then Lori couldn't answer. All she could do was gag on the paint that was now flowing out of her mouth and nose, onto the floor…

They had driven for nearly fifty miles, and then Claire, complaining of being hungry, pulled over at the nearest diner. They seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere, just this diner and a lot of empty road. Claire just hoped that the food would be good.

She turned to her companion. "Is this ok?" she asked.

He looked at her. "I don't think we have much of a choice, if you're hungry."

Claire agreed. Sylar could be just as matter-of-fact as she could. They got out of the mustang and went in.

The place looked a little run down when they entered, but it was bright and clean and they were both a bit tired from the drive.

Claire looked at Sylar, who seemed to be just taking everything in. "Counter or booth?" she asked.

"Booth, I guess. More intimate." He then walked over to the booth closest to the front counter, leaving Claire feeling a little unnerved. But she followed.

They hadn't really talked for most of the trip. When they did, it was Claire asking Sylar if a particular radio station would be all right, if he could take a look at the map to see where they were—things of that nature. He gave short, efficient answers, and while they were on the road that was fine with her. Now they were sitting across a small table from one another, and from her short experience, this is where a lot of meaningful conversation came from.

After several minutes of silence, Claire finally decided to break it. "Since we're going to be…spending a lot of time together, maybe we should…get to know each other better," she proposed, knowing already how ridiculous it probably sounded.

The man across from her looked deeply at her with his dark eyes, then smirked. "That would probably make sense," he agreed. "Can I ask you the first question?"

"All right."

"Was I your first?"

Sylar saw Claire's eyes widen at the question. He already knew the answer, but to hear her say it would make him feel…special. She had already clearly established that they weren't going to have sex, and that she couldn't bring herself to have any sort of relationship outside of a "professional" capacity until he had proven himself to be reformed. But maybe if he wore her defenses down, he could somehow…speed up the process.

But Claire cocked an eyebrow and quipped, "Tact isn't your strong point, is it?"

Sylar was surprised at her remark, but chuckled lightly. "I haven't had much use for it in my…former profession."

"I guess murder doesn't require much sensitivity," Claire observed, looking down.

"You still haven't answered my question," Sylar pressed.

Claire took a deep breath. "You were," she told him. "I thought that would have been pretty obvious." But then she looked wickedly at him and asked, "Was I your first?"

Sylar couldn't help but laugh at that. "Claire, I'm 29 years old."

"Answer me."

Sylar's smiled faded. "You were my second, actually."

Just then, their waitress, a thin girl with brown hair, came up to them and asked to take their order. Neither one of them had had a chance to look at the menu yet, so Sylar ordered a cup of coffee, Claire an iced tea. The girl told them to take their time and that she'd check on them soon. Claire noticed Sylar staring at the girl as she made her way back to the kitchen.

"Trying for your third?" she asked, hoping it wouldn't come out as sounding jealous.

Sylar glared at her intensely. "As a matter of fact, no. I was looking at her because she reminded me of one of my victims. She worked in a diner like this one."

A troubled look appeared on Claire's face. "Don't even think about—"

"I wasn't," Sylar interrupted. "I can assure you, I don't have the desire to kill anyone, anymore. It's just that…I don't usually think of the people I kill after I've taken their powers. They mean nothing to me, just a means to an end. But now…I'm remembering that waitress' face."

"Are you feeling guilty for what you've done?" Claire asked, hopeful.

Sylar seemed to ponder this for a moment. "No. Not yet, at least. I don't feel anything for them, really. I'm just remembering them now."

Claire frowned and immersed herself in the menu, and Sylar could tell that she was upset and didn't want to talk to him anymore about it. He had told her the truth, but it wasn't what she wanted to hear. But he had already told her that he wasn't going to change overnight. It was her problem if she couldn't accept that.

The waitress soon returned, with drinks, and took their orders: chicken salad on rye for Claire, reuben for Sylar.

Now that their orders were in, Claire had nothing to pretend to be busy with to avoid talking to Sylar. But she sure as hell wasn't going to initiate conversation again, after what happened. So she shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable, and accidentally brushed her leg against Sylar's thigh, which make him look up in surprise.

"Sorry," she mumbled. He didn't answer right away.

Eventually, though, that seemed to provoke a question from him that she was in no way prepared to hear: "Are you sorry that I was your first?"

Claire crossed her arms over herself, as though she felt exposed. "What?" she asked.

"Are you sorry I was your first lover? Do you wish it had been with someone like, say, Peter Petrelli?" Sylar knew this would make her squirm. It was his way of getting back at her for the remark about the waitress.

But Claire didn't answer. Instead, her mind took her back to that first encounter, in the woods. His hand exploring her most sensitive, intimate areas, his hot breath on her neck. She had begged, then demanded it of him. She remembered how it felt to come. It had been intense, like pain, and she cried out from the extremity of it. She had felt Sylar's body shudder as well, when she did come. He must have felt it, happening inside of her.

Claire could feel heat in front of her face; her limbs almost felt weak.

Sylar could see that she must have been remembering. He had meant for her to get shy, embarrassed, then he would tell her that she didn't have to answer. Once again, her reaction was like nothing Sylar had expected.

Finally, she pressed her lips together and said, almost dreamily, "It was…wonderful… with you."

Moved, Sylar reached over and took her hand in both of his. "Claire…" he began.

But then their food appeared, and Claire seemed to awaken from her trance. She pulled her hand from Sylar's grasp and began tucking into the food, not looking at him or speaking. Sylar, with less of an appetite, ate steadily. When they were both finished, Claire excused herself and went to the rest room. Sylar watched her legs moving underneath her skirt as she walked towards the back to where they were located. They'd have to stop for the night. They'd get a room together, probably with socially respectable double beds, and late that night, once she fell asleep, he'd go to her and take her in his arms. She'd give in to him, just as she had before. Redemption could come later. Right now, they needed one another.

She returned just as the waitress was giving them the check. Claire told Sylar that she would pay for lunch at the register, if he would leave the tip. He agreed and she went to go pay.

The cashier, a plump lady with silver grey hair, smiled, took Claire's receipt, and asked if she had enjoyed the meal, to which Claire replied with a gracious affirmation. Claire's attention was then drawn to the television mounted above the bar. Curious, she listened to the report:

"_Last night, the body of 24 year old Lori Dunkirk was found in her apartment today, covered in red paint. Apparently Dunkirk died of a combination of lead poisoning and asphyxiation from the chemicals in it. Police are still unsure as to how this happened, as there are no clues to explain how she became doused in paint. They have also ruled out suicide as a possible explanation."_

The cashier saw Claire's interest in the story and clucked her teeth in sympathy. "That poor girl. Makes the third case like that in the Portland area," she told Claire.

"The third?" Claire asked, intrigued.

"Yeah, haven't you heard? One month ago, a girl was found with a hole cut in her chest. No murder weapon, no prints. They ruled out suicide there too. And then, one month before that, a girl was found in pieces—pieces! They gave the excuse that it was her dog that had done it, but there ain't no dog I know of that could do something like that. I think they're covering something up."

"Are there any leads?" Claire asked.

The lady looked at her, bug-eyed. "Well, how would I know, honey? I'm not the police! You'd have to go ask them yourself. Now, that's $15.45."

"Oh," Claire remembered. She put down sixteen dollars and told the woman to keep the change. Then she exited the diner, where she found Sylar waiting for her.

"I know where we need to go next," she told him.

"Where?"

"Portland. It should be about 100 miles south of here."

"More like 250. Why are we going there?"

"Because there are unexplainable murders happening there, and I think it's the work of someone with special abilities."

Ordinarily news like this would have made Sylar's eyes shine with delight—thinking that he would find another power to take for his own. But now, it seemed more like a burden. Why did he have to do the work of the police? He knew nothing about solving crimes. But he knew that if he protested, Claire would easily leave him behind and go after the killer herself. Which, of course, he couldn't let her do.

"Whatever you say, Chief."

After they left the diner, Sylar offered to drive, which Claire gladly accepted. Once they were back on the road, she leaned back in the seat and stretched her legs out as far as they would go, realizing how tired she was.

But she wouldn't sleep. She was able to get a newspaper from a stand not too far away from the diner, to read about this latest murder. Apparently, there was somewhat of a pattern in the victims: beautiful, working-professional women, between the ages of 20 and 35. The coroner had pronounced their times of death around the same time of day, between 5:30 and 6:30 pm. Their jobs were all within a 10 mile radius of one another.

Claire had been quiet for several hours during the trip, poring over the newspaper articles she'd gotten. At last Sylar looked over and saw that her head was down, her eyes closed.

But Claire wasn't asleep. She actually startled Sylar by asking, after the long silence, "What kind of guy do you think we're looking for?"

Sylar stared out the windshield, his brow furrowed in bewilderment. "How would I know?"

Claire sat up in the seat in looked at him. "You understand how the mind of a murderer works."

Sylar barked out a laugh. "All murderers were not created in the same image, my dear. Just because I've killed doesn't mean I know why other people do it."

Claire stared out towards the road, thinking. "But there has to be some basic reason for why people kill."

"Oh there are possible motives: people kill for self-defense, people kill out of anger and hatred, some people kill for the thrill of ending a life, and others," Sylar swallowed, "kill because they have no other way of getting what they want."

"And you'd put yourself in that last group?"

Sylar looked over at her. "Yes. I would."

"So…if you had a power like Peter's, where he only had to be around someone to get someone else's, then you never would have killed in the first place."

Sylar thought about it. Then he said, "Yes. I think that if I could just know how to mimic the powers of others, without having to actually see inside their heads, I would never have killed."

"So there were never any emotions connected to the murders you've committed?"

Sylar didn't like this conversation. He didn't like having to analyze something that once came so naturally to him. But Claire had asked a simple question, and he felt that he'd be a coward if he tried to avoid answering.

So he replied, "That isn't entirely true. Now, looking back, I was…jealous."

"That's understandable. Those people were given powers and you weren't."

Sylar involuntarily ground his teeth. "That's not the only reason. I was also…angry, because something out there—God, Nature, whatever you want to call it—had given such

extraordinary powers to people that were so undeserving of them."

"Why were they undeserving?"

"Because they were afraid of their abilities, like silly little children. For instance, the first person I killed—Brian Davis—he was a cowardly, sniveling little fool, who had the incredible power of telekinesis. He contacted me, hoping that I could cure him of it! Imagine, being cured of something that could make you feel like a god! So, I "cured" him; I took his power and gave it to someone who would use it well: me. When I first met Brian, he could barely push a coffee mug across a table. And look what I can do with that same power! I was able to topple a multi-ton van! There was so much good that could be done with that power, and it never would have happened if I hadn't taken it from Brian."

"But you haven't done any good with that power, Sylar," Claire said gently, half-afraid.

Sylar looked over at the blonde haired girl. "I saved you. I think you'd count that as good."

Claire shrugged in accord, then noticed that they had passed the exit they needed to take. "You missed the turn!" Claire exclaimed with alarm. You're going to have to turn back!"

"Ok, ok," Sylar said. "I'll get off at the next exit and turn around."

After a few manipulations, Sylar was able to get them back on track to Portland. But the two of them had fallen silent again. At last, twenty miles before they would be at their destination, Claire spoke again.

"Do you think that I'm deserving…of the power I have, I mean?" she asked, almost shyly.

Sylar looked over at her and gave her his smug, usually dangerous, but now characteristic grin. "I wouldn't be here with you if you weren't," he told her.

In spite of the gravity of the conversation, Claire couldn't help but smile a little.

It was in the news the next day, about Lori. He hated reading about it, those details of how she was found. They always made them look like the victim. This time, the televised news showed pictures of her with her parents, her boyfriend, when she graduated from high school. They made her seem so sweet and innocent, like she didn't deserve what happened to her. The police and media never stopped to think that maybe there was a reason why they were picked. But then again, he had to admit, that was the way it had always been.

As most things do, it went all the way back to childhood. He was a homely child, just like he was a homely adult. In school, he never had friends. The other children just found him too ugly to be worthy of friendship. And they were cruel to him, both the boys and girls. But then, he remembered when things changed. He developed a crush on one little girl, a blonde haired, blue eyed angel named Elizabeth. By then he was in the fifth grade, and he had a great vantage point when sitting in class: he sat on the right side of the room, she on the left, and he was two rows behind her. So he could look at her easily without her seeing him look. Her voice was light and tinkling, like a silver bell, and she always wore the prettiest dresses to school. At that moment, he thought he could be happy for the rest of his life if he could just look at her, like that, forever.

He didn't dare tell his mother. She was a huge, domineering, formidable woman, who read the bible every day, carried it with her, in fact, and, in spite of her sex, believed and preached all of the misogynistic philosophies of Christianity. His father had passed away some years ago, dead of a heart attack but he was sure that it was because his mother had heckled him into an early grave. Now, as a stand-in for his father, he bore the brunt of her fire-and brimstone dogma, which was always directed at the "fallen woman."

"Eve, Jezebel, Bathsheba! All treacherous, deceitful! Women were created to tempt men to their doom—there is not a shred of true goodness or decency in any of them! You must be on the lookout for those dirty little girls, son—or they will bring you down!"

And then Elizabeth had a birthday party, and invited everyone—well, almost everyone. He didn't get an invitation. When everyone walked into class one morning, there were pretty pink and white cards on the desks, inviting the addressee to Elizabeth's house for dinner and cake. The little angel sat there, pleased with herself. It was the talk of the entire classroom that day, because everyone knew that Elizabeth had a big beautiful house with a pool (although no one could swim at that time of year) and they were all excited.

But he didn't have an invitation on his desk. He felt glued to his seat, part of him wanting to go ask Elizabeth why he hadn't gotten an invitation, but terrified of the thought of actually talking to her, which he had never really done. Then Charles, one of the boys who sat in his row, who wasn't a friend but was at least decent to him, came up and asked, "Hey, where's your invite?"

"I didn't get one," he admitted.

Charles shrugged. "Lizzie probably just ran out of invitations in the pack. After all, everyone else in class got one—it's understood that the whole class is invited."

He brightened at that thought, although he was a little jealous that Charles had the privilege of calling her "Lizzie." But Charles was right. Elizabeth just forgotten him. She wouldn't be cruel enough to put out invitations for everyone else, and not invite him too.

So he decided to go. He would wear his best Sunday suit, and buy a pretty gift and wrap it really nicely. But how was he going to tell his mother?

Finally, three days before the party, he mustered up the courage to ask her.

"When is it?" she asked him.

"Saturday, Mama."

"Who's it for?"

He hesitated. He just knew his mother wouldn't let him go to a "dirty little girl's party," so he had to think fast. Then he said, as confidently as he could, "a boy in my class named Joe."

He wasn't completely lying. Joe was Elizabeth's brother, although he was a year younger and in a different class. But he was sure Joe would be there, as would some of his friends, so technically it would be sort of his party, too.

His mother believed him, and consented. But when she offered to walk him there, he pleaded with her to let him walk there alone, feigning embarrassment of being walked to a party by his "mommy." He was afraid there would be a big banner with Elizabeth's name or something that she'd see, and then she'd know he was lying. Miraculously, his mother consented to that as well.

He was elated. He anxiously looked forward to Saturday. The afternoon before, he pretended to be going to the corner store for gum, and instead went to Chassley's, a boutique a couple blocks away from his house, to find a gift for Elizabeth.

He felt lost once he entered the store. He didn't know what girls liked. The only woman he really knew was his mother, and she was so austere. She believed that ornate objects were the devil's creation, so he was at a loss for what a "lady" gift should be.

"Do you need help?" a kind voice said. It was Mrs. Chassley, who ran the boutique.

He turned around, alarmed. "I'm…trying to find a birthday gift for my mama," he lied. Mrs. Chassley went to church with his mother, and he was afraid that the lady might tell his mother he was in here looking for a gift for a girl. If Mrs. Chassley thought it was for his mother, she'd more than likely keep his visit a secret.

"Oh how sweet! What were you looking for, dear?" she asked him.

"I don't know, ma'am. I don't know what girls like, and I haven't a lot of money," he told her honestly.

He was surprised when Mrs. Chassley smiled at his frankness. She then said, "Hmm…let's look around the store."

He watched the older lady circle her goods, then finally she picked up something and brought it to him. It was a stationery set, 100 sheets of heavy bonded paper with a flowery pink border and envelopes to match, along with a shiny gold pen in a gold embossed box. He smiled. He liked it. He could see Elizabeth sitting in her room, writing letters with the set and thinking of him.

Mrs. Chassley told him it was only two dollars, and, luckily, he had just enough to buy it and have it gift-wrapped. He was happily watching the clerk wrap the gift, when he froze in fear. How was he going to get it home without his mother seeing it? Mrs. Chassley was wrapping it in red, pink and white paper—she'd never believe he'd give a boy a gift that looked like that!

But Mrs. Chassley came to his rescue again. "I'm sure you don't want your mama to see you coming home with her gift—do you want to leave it here with me, until you're ready?" He smiled gratefully at her. He told her that he would pick it up the next day.

So, the next day, hair neatly combed, suit freshly pressed, he was walking to Elizabeth's house with the gift under his arm and feeling light and heavy at the same time. He was so happy to be seeing her, and he was so pleased with his gift, but anxiety still lay like lead in his stomach. He really hoped she liked it. Maybe, if she did, she'd give him a kiss on the cheek, like he'd seen girls do on television, when they'd gotten sweet gifts from boys. The thought of it made his heart flutter.

He got to her house, a beautiful, grand Georgian with red bricks and white shutters. Even from the road he could hear the sounds of laughing children. He drew closer, and could see all sorts of colorful decorations in the window.

He nervously rang the bell, and waited. A tall, pretty lady in a white dress opened the door. It had to be Elizabeth's mother. She smiled at him, but she also seemed a little uneasy, like she wasn't expecting him. But when he smiled back, she assumed he was meant to be there and told him to come in.

All the other kids in his class were there, and they had been singing, laughing and yelling up until the point he arrived. Now, as Elizabeth's mother showed him into the living room where they were gathered and left, the room grew silent. They looked at him with confused faces. Then he heard one of the girls whisper to another, "What's he doing here? Lizzie didn't invite him!"

Then the birthday girl finally came in, Charles and her brother Joe on each arm. They had been singing a popular song at the time and happily skipping, until they saw him standing there and stopped. Joe looked angry. Charles looked guilty. Elizabeth just looked shocked.

He was humiliated, but he still hoped, in spite of all the evidence, that there had just been a misunderstanding and that he really was meant to be there. He took the gift from under his arm and held it out to her. "Happy birthday, Lizzie," he told her, daring to call her by her nickname.

Elizabeth stood there, just petrified, until Joe walked up to him and pushed the gift back at him. "Get out of here, freak," he said. "Lizzie doesn't want you at her party."

He couldn't remember actually walking out of the house and back onto the street. He just remembered finding himself in the park nearby, his eyes clouded and burning with tears. He heard a high-pitched wail, then realized it had come from him. Somehow he found a park bench and sat down on it, allowing himself to cry. His mother had been right. Women, ladies, girls—whatever you wanted to call them—they were the cause of all suffering. He knew he wasn't mad at Joe, for insulting him, or even Charles, for misleading him. It was Elizabeth that he hated with a passion. She could have been the one to make it ok. She could have defended him, told her brother to butt out and that he was meant to be at her party. But she just stood there and allowed him to be hurt. She might as well have stood by while vultures tore out his heart and ate it.

But why did she have to be so pretty? He knew, it was like his mother said: women were fashioned by the devil to lure a man in and then break him. Well, he promised himself, it wasn't going to happen again.

But what was he going to do now? He couldn't go home; his mother would wonder why he was home so early. He'd just have to kill some time in the park.

Sniffling, he began to furiously rip the wrapping paper off of the gift he had bought for Elizabeth and sent it flying in the air in bits around him. People passing by stared at him, perplexed, but he didn't care what anyone thought. He held the stationery set, now free of paper, and looked at it. Curious, he opened it up and took a sheet out, rubbing his thumb on its pulpy smoothness. He took out the gold pen, cold to the touch, and wrote his name. They had been practicing writing in cursive in class all that week, and he was quite good at it; even the teacher said that his handwriting was the best she had seen in a long time. He looked at his signature for a moment, proud of it. Then, not really knowing what else to do, he wrote his name again, neatly making the loops and curves that comprised it.

Bored with this, he started writing other names: his mother's, his father's, the name of his old dog that had died a year ago. Then, for some reason, he decided to write a different name: Elizabeth. Fascinated, he took out another sheet and wrote it again: Elizabeth, in clear, meticulously neat, strokes. He wrote it in the very center of the paper. It seemed fitting, somehow, to put Elizabeth's name at the very center, because that seemed to be where she was: always the center of attention, others crowded around her, never allowing him in to be near her. He looked at each letter: the long loop of the "l," the zig-zaggedness of the "z," the plumpness of the "a." The more he looked, the more he hated the name. He hated the name because it symbolized the girl he now hated more than anything else in the world. He wished he could destroy that name forever, wipe it out of existence.

Then, impulsively, he took the piece of paper that he had written her name on and crumpled it up in his hands, throwing it to the ground. He wished, in that moment, that somehow the real Elizabeth would feel that, so she'd know how much she'd hurt him.

On Monday, he made his way to school, dreading having to see his classmates after what had happened over the weekend. He was sure they would stare at him, whisper about him, giggle to themselves. But he was surprised to find that they were all very quiet, almost somber. He sat down at his desk, trying to pretend to be busy with something, when he noticed from the corner of his eye that Charles was making his way over to him. He didn't want to talk to Charles. He was sure the boy would try to apologize for something that he couldn't change. But when he got there his face was pale and scared. "Did you hear what happened to Lizzie?" Charles asked him.

"No," he replied. "What happened?"

Charles was about to tell him when the school bell rang and their teacher came in. He noticed that she had the same devastated look on her face that Charles did. She put her books down and stood in the middle of class.

"I'm sure most of you have heard by now, but in case you haven't, I have some bad news to tell you," his teacher said. "Lizzie has had a terrible accident and is now in the hospital. The doctors don't know if she's going to live…" his teachers voice trailed off, and he could see that tears were beginning to form in her eyes. He looked around to see many of his classmates also with tears in their eyes. This made him angry. Didn't they know how nasty she was? But no. They all believed she was a sweet, innocent, darling.

He secretly was glad that Elizabeth got hurt. But he knew he was the only one who felt that way. His teacher had suggested they spend their English period writing get-well letters to her, which he didn't want to do. But, he was a good student and did as he was told.

He was just finishing up writing a few simple lines—"Dear Lizzie, I'm sorry you're hurt, I hope you feel better soon"—when Charles leaned over and whispered to him, "It was so creepy, what happened to her."

"What happened?" he asked.

Charles looked at him funny, as if he was a pervert for wanting to know the disgusting details. Still, he told him. "It was after the party ended. She was standing at the top of her stairs, talking to her mother, when all of a sudden, she just…crumpled up. Then she fell down the stairs and broke all her bones."

"What do you mean, crumpled up?"

"Just like I said. Just…lost shape, like she was a piece of paper somebody crumpled in their hand." With that, Charles returned to his desk.

He felt like an icicle had just been plunged into his back. He remembered sitting in the park, writing Elizabeth's name on a piece of paper, then feeling such a hatred that he crumpled up the paper with her name on it. It had been him! Somehow, he made it happen!

He smiled and turned back to his work. He had power. And he was going to make sure no one ever hurt him again.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they reached Portland, it was late in the evening. Sylar looked out at the city, the lights of the streetlamps and the buildings twinkling. He had to admit, night was his favorite. It seemed to be deep and dark and private. It was when he felt most alive. But they had been traveling all day, and, he had to concede to himself, he was tired and needed rest.

He knew Claire was tired too. She kept nodding off, her head bobbing up and down as she slipped into and recovered from sleep. Finally, once they were in the area of Portland where the murders had occurred, he tapped her shoulder. "Wake up," he said. "We're here."

She took a deep breath and stretched in her seat, then looked around. "We'll need to find a place to stay tonight," she told him, then remembered the lack of luggage in the back of the mustang. "And we're going to need to buy clothes."

"_Buy_ clothes?" Sylar asked, giving her an odd look.

Claire returned the look. "Well, yeah. You don't intend to go around in those clothes for the rest of your life, do you?"

"No," he said. "I just haven't bought clothes in a while."

"Well what have you done, then?" Claire said with a snicker, "steal them?"

Sylar looked at her in earnest. "Yes."

Claire's jaw dropped. "So you're a murderer _and _a thief?"

Sylar groaned. "I've only taken what I've needed. I don't have money on me usually; it's not like I get paid for what I do. And I've never held anyone up at gunpoint for anything. I just wait until a place is closed, use my power, and get what I need."

"Well, you're starting with a clean slate, and part of that slate is doing everything by the book. We need to find someplace cheap and accessible, buy what we need, then find a hotel."

Sylar looked around the street. "How about there?" he said, pointing to a store with an icon that looked like a bulls-eye. He'd never seen it before, but the store looked big enough and was bound to have a clothes department.

"Target? Yeah, that'll work," Claire said.

Sylar parked the car and followed Claire into the store. He nearly lost her because she quickly began walking off, seeming to already know what she wanted.

"Wait!" he called. When she didn't stop he used his power to stop her in her tracks. He heard her gasp. He quickly ran to her and freed her from his control.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Claire asked angrily.

"I told you to wait and you didn't. It was one way I could make sure I didn't lose you," Sylar reasoned.

She rolled her eyes. "It's a department store, Sylar, not the bottom of the ocean. We'd find each other eventually." She began walking again, heading towards the misses section to buy clothes, and then realized that he was walking right after her. She turned back and gave him an annoyed look.

"Why are you following me?" she asked him.

"We're buying clothes, aren't we?" he asked, almost sounding sheepish.

"Well I'm buying clothes in the misses section. You're buying clothes in the men's section, unless along with changing your ways you've decided to pick up a fetish for cross-dressing too," she said sarcastically.

Sylar didn't seem to find her comment funny. "Well, what do I buy?" he asked.

Claire couldn't believe this. Here, before her, was a 6 foot something serial killer who was insisting on following her like a puppy dog and needed her to tell him what to buy. She sighed loudly in frustration. "Get a pair of jeans, a pair of khakis, some button down shirts, some pullover shirts, a pack of t-shirts, a jacket, socks, a belt if you like, and some underwear," she directed.

He actually looked a little hurt by her frustration, but he turned and began walking towards Men's. Claire shook her head and resumed her own shopping. She usually wasn't too wild about Target styles, but she didn't want to tell Sylar that she wanted to go elsewhere. The poor guy looked completely bewildered by having to shop for himself. Looking through shirts, she couldn't help but laugh to herself. He had been a psychopath, but he was male all through: completely helpless when it came to shopping.

Then she had a thought that struck her. She had the image in her head of them shopping together as a couple someday, she telling him what to buy, him acquiescing because he knew she knew best. It made her smile, but it also unnerved her. She knew she was never going to have a normal life, and even if Sylar was reformed completely, they'd never have a normal life together. Thinking of the future made her crazy. It was best to think only of the present, do what needed to be done now.

She finished her shopping, and looked at what she'd found: three button down dress shirts, an elbow length lightweight sweater, two pairs of jeans, two pairs of dress slacks, two dresses, a skirt, five bra and panty sets, a pair of pajamas, and a nightgown. Claire then remembered that they would need something to carry their clothes in; it was a bit tacky to walk into a hotel with shopping bags. She skirted over to their sports section, and bought two duffle bags. She had done well, and it was enough to get her by without blowing through all the money that Mr. Nakamura had given her.

She walked over to the men's section to find Sylar standing there, his clothes in his hands. She noticed he was staring at the lingerie she had in her arms, but she decided not to call him on it; he'd been heckled enough by her.

At the checkout counter, Claire asked the cashier, a gawky teen with spiked black hair and piercings, where the closest hotel was.

He looked at Sylar, standing behind her, then Claire. "Are you going for cheap or nice?" he asked.

"Somewhere in between," Claire replied.

The teen pointed out the door. "There's a Best Western down the street; just go through a few lights and it'll be on your right."

By the time they reached the hotel, it was nearly ten, but the clerk told them they did have vacancies and would check them in, much to Claire's relief.

"Single room, double beds?" the clerk asked. Sylar was about to answer in the affirmative when Claire piped up, "Separate, adjoining rooms, please, if you have them."

Sylar looked down at Claire, who didn't meet his eyes. Separate rooms? He hadn't been expecting that.

The clerk was able to accommodate them, and when he asked for payment Sylar stealthily slid him a credit card. Curious, Claire tried to see the name on the card but Sylar blocked her view with his shoulder (deliberately, she thought).

The clerk gave them two key cards, and explained that the rooms had two doors: one to the outside, and one to each other's rooms, through a small hallway, and that each door could be locked from the inside. The clerk looked meaningfully at Claire, as if he knew she was afraid of being alone with her companion.

They were at the door to the rooms when Claire put her hand to her head and said, "shit!"

"What's wrong?" Sylar asked.

"Toiletries. I forgot to buy soap, a toothbrush, floss…"

But then she saw Sylar reach into his duffle and pull out a small plastic bag. He handed it to her. She looked through it and saw, to her delight, that it had everything that she had just complained of not having.

"Thank you!" she said, then frowned slightly. "You…did buy this, right?"

Sylar smirked, and nodded. "I bought it while you were picking out your clothes. I…I was sort of dreading buying my clothes, so I bought those things first."

Claire nodded. There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Sylar just stared at her. He didn't look like he was planning to go to his own room anytime soon.

Finally Claire just slid the key through the module on the door and heard it click. She held it open with her hand and said to him. "Well, it's been a long day. We should get some rest and then start early." She began to walk into her room and he began to follow, which made her freeze.

Sylar smiled slyly. "You don't mind if I get into my room through yours, do you? They are adjoining after all."

He was standing close to her, and he knew that made her nervous. He was much taller than her; the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. With his hearing he could hear her heart beat speed up, her breath become a little quicker.

But she said, "Um, sure," and stood aside for him to come in. The rooms were not terribly large, but they appeared to be clean and in good order. Sylar immediately went to the door which adjoined his room and opened it, and walked inside. He knew Claire was probably watching him, wondering what he'd do next. He took a brief assessment of his room, then walked back to hers. She was standing in the middle of the room, staring.

He walked up to her again, close enough to look intimate, but far enough that they weren't touching. "Do you…need anything?" he asked.

Claire pressed her lips together in that way he was beginning to recognize as nervous arousal and shook her head. "Really, I'm fine," she said in almost a whisper.

"You don't trust me, do you?" Sylar asked, still not moving.

"It's not about trusting you. It's about trusting myself," she told him, and moved to the bed, unpacking the clothes she bought from the store.

Sylar was disappointed, but he felt a sense of respect for her answer. He walked back to the hallway. "Good night," he called after him, and heard, a few seconds later, a quiet "good night."

She took a shower, changed into her new pajamas, and got into the bed, which she found, with relief, was clean and free of stains. As tired and comfortable as she felt, she couldn't fall asleep just yet. She was a little…piqued by the fact that Sylar was going to be sleeping just a few feet away from her, but she forced herself to think about the case. Case. It made it sound like she—they—were detectives. And in a way they were. They were cases of the superhuman, something they could specialize in.

She rolled from her side and onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Who exactly were they looking for? Cases of the superhuman would be doubly difficult, she decided, because they wouldn't only be looking for a particular profile of a person for motive, but also a type of power for the purposes of actually perpetrating the crime. Claire felt strongly that the murderer had to be a man. The victims were all women, all young and most likely beautiful, if Lori Dunkirk was any indication. They all died in rather violent, brutal ways, which seemed to Claire to be more of a fashion that men would follow.

She wondered if the victims died quickly, or if they had time to be terrified, knowing that they might die. Claire could relate to the latter. She'd been a victim before. And maybe…that was the way to catch the killer.

But now she could feel sleep pulling at her, so she stopped resisting and let herself fall into a dull, dreamless sleep.

He waited until he heard the sounds of her breathing become deep and even, and her heart rate slow down. Then he got up and walked through the hallway. He tried the door, expecting to find it locked, but found, to his surprise, it was open. Claire must have forgotten to lock it. Or, he pondered with a smile, maybe she didn't.

He open the door slowly, carefully, and crept inside. Claire was lying in bed, one hand against her cheek, her hair spread out on the pillow. He moved quickly to the side of the bed and sat down, looking at her. He now knew her as being brave, bold, maybe a little impulsive, but now all her defenses were down and looked sweet, innocent—a sleeping angel.

He leaned over and stroked her hair, wondering if she was a light sleeper or not. Apparently, she was the former. Her eyes opened. "Sylar?" she said groggily, then sat up and looked around. "What's wrong?"

He eased her back down to the bed and kissed her. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just here for you." He cupped one side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. He knew that she was becoming aroused, because he could feel heat gathering in her face. He would soon get in the bed with her, hold her in his arms.

But her shut her eyes and caught his hand in hers, moving it gently away from her face. "Sylar," she began, "are you sorry for what you've done?"

He knew what she wanted to hear, and part of him wanted to lie so that she would give in, but he knew she'd know he was lying. So he told her the truth. "I'm sorry for what I've done to _you_," he said softly. "Everything I've done."

Her eyes were fully open now. "And everyone else?"

Sylar reluctantly shook his head. "No one else matters but you, Claire. You're the only thing I care about."

She stared at him for a while, as if trying to come to a decision. Then she said, "That's not enough for me. You need to go back to your room…please."

Sylar's eyes burned. She really had rejected him! Wordlessly he stalked from the room, using his telekinesis to slam the door behind him as hard as he could.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

He stayed up a little later tonight, mainly because he had a lot of work to do that he wasn't able to get done earlier. All the drama going on at work! Everyone practically in tears, even people who didn't work with Lori and had never met the slut. You'd think they'd never heard of a person dying.

Of course, the other constant conversation thread, the one that he didn't mind hearing, was all the speculation about how Lori had been found: covered in red paint, inside and out. People were frightened about the mystery, and he loved it. He showed them.

Tonight made him think back to high school. After Elizabeth's deadly injury, he knew he had power, and so he began to carry himself with a quiet superiority. He was still "butt-ugly" as one girl termed him, but he held his head high and didn't speak to anyone unless he deemed it worthwhile. But high school was full of curvy, luscious, promiscuous girls. Mini-skirts and knee high boots. Tight sweaters. Pedal-pushers. Creamy skin. Cleavage that shook lightly when they laughed. Ohh it was revolting. And it was maddening to know that he could take them all out if he wanted to. However, he was afraid that somehow, if too many were taken, that it would be traced back to him.

He had made it through his entire high school career, and was almost free when prom came and he had no choice but to act. He knew that everyone hated him, first because he was so ugly, and second because he was prideful. He knew they'd try to cut him down a peg. His mother had told him stories about this, to prepare him. He seemed oblivious to everything, but his ears were open. He knew what people said about him.

The "popular crowd" found their foil for him in the shape of Jenny Winter, a tall, thin chickie with strawberry blond hair and a porcelain complexion. He was sitting in the library, immersed in a book, or at least pretending to. He saw them gathering together and conspiring, and then Jenny walked over to him, pretending to be innocent of any forethought.

"Is this seat taken?" she said in her sweetest voice.

"No," he answered simply. He went back to reading and he knew she was beginning to get uncomfortable.

"Well…can I sit here?" she said, trying to mask her annoyance with sweetness.

"That's your choice," he told her. Sheepishly she sat down. He now knew she was trying to find a way to work up a conversation. He wasn't going to make it easy.

But she pushed the right button, the little tart. "Everyone thinks you're a snob, you know," she told him, trying to seem frank, "but I think it's because you know you have power, and you're not going to waste your time on anyone below you."

He actually put down his book and looked at her. Did she know, somehow? He was good at masking emotions, and probably only seemed mildly amused, but inside he was astir with fear.

She smiled. "I know you're smart. You're destined to go on to do great things. You know that you're better than everyone here, maybe even some of the teachers. Why come down to our level?"

Internally he sighed with relief. She knew nothing. She just thought he was an ugly nerd with too much pride. He decided to play along.

"Well…you might be right there," he said. He knew now that she thought she had a way in.

She leaned a little closer, trying to seem confidential. "You know…all my friends think I'm crazy for coming over to talk to you. They said you'd just ignore me or dismiss me. But I told them I'd ask you anyway."

Here it came. She was going to ask him to the prom, he was going to get all excited because he thought they made a "connection." Then, she'd tell him to meet her at the prom, he'd get there, only to find that she was already with her date, and everyone would laugh at his foolishness. They'd finally get back at the arrogant freak they all hated.

But he decided to play along. "You…want something from me?"

Jenny's eyes fell. Nice play. "I-I have trouble reading," she told him quietly. Shocked, he leaned a little closer and listened. He hadn't been expecting this at all.

"I have trouble with comprehension. And…and I know my parents get disappointed in me. I'm not going to graduate unless I get help with my final paper in our English class. You see, I…I see what I want to say in my head, but when I write it, it doesn't come out right. Well, I can't afford a professional tutor, and I really need help. And you're the smartest guy in our class," Jenny smiled shyly. "My friends said you wouldn't help me, but I told them I had to try."

So that's why they were gathered at that other table! They were trying to talk her out of it! At the back of his mind, he still wondered if this could be a cruel joke. But she opened up to him in such a way—why would she fake a disability like that? And she was very beautiful…he decided that Jenny was different and he'd help her.

The following week he tried to help her to write. Every afternoon he'd meet her at the library and tutor her. He tried to explain how to write ideas with clarity, and organize them efficiently. He asked her about the details of the plays and poems they read about, but she shrugged and said no matter how hard she tried to read, the ideas never made sense to her.

Finally, one day she turned to him, practically in tears, and said, "I've tried my hardest. But I'm going to fail and it'll break my mother's heart. The only way I'll pass…is if you write the paper for me." He felt wrong about doing it, but when he saw the tears beginning to form in her eyes he didn't think he had any choice but to agree.

So he typed up an essay about one of the poems they'd read in class, carefully composing it so that it would be good enough to pass, but with enough grammatical and mechanical errors that the teacher wouldn't suspect that he'd written it. He gave it to her the day before class, and she actually hugged him! Put her arms around him and embraced him.

"You saved my life," she said with a smile. "My parents will be so proud of me."

He beamed. He felt like he could do anything at that moment. And so he did. It was impulsive, but he went with it. "Will you…go to the prom with me?"

Her smile fell. She looked away, like she was thinking. But then she quietly agreed.

He was on cloud-nine for the rest of the day. He was going to the prom, and with a beautiful girl! The incident with Elizabeth when he was ten years old faded from his mind. The only worry he had now was how he was going to tell his mother.

He ended up not having to worry about that. He was in a store a few days later, looking at bow ties for the prom, when he thought he heard Jenny's voice. It was coming from behind the wall, separating the men's section from the women's. He was going to go there and greet her but then he heard something that froze his blood.

"So I thought I was going to fail English class, you know, because I've been giving it the heave-ho all semester, but this brainiac in my class actually wrote it for me!"

"No way!" said the other girl, who he didn't recognize. "How'd you ever pull that one off?"

"Oh, I told him that I was going to fail English, and that I had 'learning problems'"—she actually laughed right there, "and he felt so bad for me that he wrote it up and gave it to me!"

"Ohh, brother. What do you have to do to pay him back?" the other girl asked.

"Well, I did tell him I would go to the prom with him," Jenny said with remorse. "But I'm just going to tell him at the last minute that I have to go on a trip with my family, and that'll be that."

"So you're not going to the prom?"

"Of course I am, Dummy! Robert's taking me. I just have to get that other guy off my back first."

He ran out of that store so fast his head hurt. He had been betrayed again! Jenny never had any learning disabilities! She was just a lying, lazy slut who'd used him and never had any feelings for him at all.

Fists clenched so tight his hands hurt, he ran all the way home and went to his room and shut the door tight. He got out a piece of paper and a pen, sat on his bed, and began to carefully and neatly write the name, Jenny. He looked at the name for a long time, the loop of the "e," the swirls of the "y." He hated the name—Jenny. It was the name of a manipulative, cheating, lazy whore.

And what happened to manipulative, cheating, lazy whores? He knew. Slowly he walked into the bathroom, put the stopper in the sink, and filled it halfway with cool, clear water that reflected the sun from the window in white, curvy lines. Then he took the piece of paper with the offensive name, gently placed it on the top of the water, and submerged it.

That year there was no prom at Oakwood High School, on account of one of their students being found dead with fluid in her lungs two days before it.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Claire lay awake in bed for hours after Sylar left her. The events of the occurrence ran through her head over and over again, and she kept dealing with the same mix of emotions: pride because she had resisted, guilt because he had laid his heart out to her and she rejected him, fear that he would revert back to his old ways, worry that now she would be alone. Her mind raced and raced until it was nearly dawn, and then she could stay awake no longer and fell asleep.

When she opened her eyes again it was 8:30. She felt terrible and only wanted to sleep some more, but she knew she had work to do. And so, groaning, she dragged herself out of bed, washed her face and brushed her teeth, and threw on a combination of the clothes she had bought the night before. Finally she was done, and she looked over at the adjoining door, a chill of anxiety coursing down her back. She wondered if he was there.

Carefully she walked into the little hallway and came to the closed door. She knocked lightly. "Sylar?" she said softly. When she received no answer she tried again, a little louder this time. She tried to hear through the door but could discern nothing on the other side. She was thinking of trying the door, but decided against it. Perhaps he was still asleep. She would understand if he had had a hard time sleeping after that night's incident.

She walked down to the lobby, where they were serving a "continental breakfast" according to the signpost by the elevator. Claire knew she should eat, but her anxiety about her status with Sylar reduced her appetite. She decided to at least see what was available in the conservatory, anyway.

When she arrived at the conservatory she found, with a measure of joy, that Sylar was there, sitting alone at a table, eating a pastry. She walked up to him and sat down carefully, a little afraid.

"Hi," she said meekly.

Sylar looked up at her with a look of total unconcern. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

Claire was a little confused by his nonchalance, but she replied, "not too well. Listen, about last night--"

"I drew this yesterday. It might be helpful," Sylar interrupted, pushing a piece of paper across the table to her. Claire turned it over and looked at it. The drawing seemed to be the back of a man. She could see that he was holding a piece of paper in his hand, and even though most of his face was hidden, there was clearly a smile marking his features.

Claire handed the drawing back to Sylar. "What do you think it means?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "Could be our killer. I don't know."

Claire looked at it again from across the table. "Couldn't you draw it with his face forward?"

Sylar shook his head. "The precognition works like a trance that I can't really control. If there was some other way of controlling it, I didn't learn."

"Maybe you should have asked for instructions from Isaac Mendez before you killed him," Claire quipped, then instantly felt bad for some reason.

Sylar appeared unfazed. "Yes, I'll have to remember that for next time," he remarked, then got up to get another pastry.

Claire was troubled. Did he really mean that—a next time? Had she completely dashed his faith and good will? Oh, this was such a mess. She never should have given in to him the first time—and second time. She didn't want to play power games. She just wanted him to care, to show mercy, compassion, and generosity to others, not just her. Mr. Nakamura told her that Sylar could be used for the greater good, but she wasn't so sure if she was the right one to get him there.

Sylar returned with two pastries, passing one to her. "Where do you suggest we start looking?" he asked.

Claire looked down at the danish he brought her, feeling a little ill, but still thinking. "The library, I guess. We can check back issues of the newspapers for clues."

"Sounds good. Aren't you going to eat that?"

He was so cool. He acted like everything was fine, that he felt nothing. Claire knew she lost him. She just hoped that they could solve this case and then go their separate ways without him killing her.

"No," she said simply. "You can have it." She pushed it back at him and got up to leave.

The library in the area wasn't terribly diverse in sources, but Claire was able to look at issues of the local newspapers and read about the other murders. Apparently the first girl, Janet Redelmeyer, who was found with a perfect circle cut out of her chest, and the second girl, Lisa Laricey, who had had her body torn apart, both lived alone. There was no evidence of anyone being in the apartment at the time of their deaths at all. A neighbor of Janet Redelmeyer's even swore that she was in the hallway before and during the time of death, and hadn't seen anyone enter.

"So whoever this killer is, he's doing this from some other place," Claire told Sylar, who was looking through the national papers.

"It's a good way to do it. Clean, efficient, no need for physical contact," Sylar remarked.

Claire felt a bit of exasperation run through her. Of course he'd admire this. He probably wishes he could do something like that himself.

"The question is now, how did he do it? Even with extraordinary powers, you usually have to be in contact with something in order to do something to it," she reasoned.

"I'd find it a more…satisfying experience myself, to have contact," Sylar said. Even with her back turned to him, Claire knew he was smirking.

Her sigh came out as being resigned. "I guess it is," she said quietly.

"I was kidding, you know," Sylar told her, sitting down next to her.

Claire looked at him, puzzled. "About what?"

"When I said I'd remember next time to get instructions from someone before I killed them. I was kidding about that."

She smiled. "I'm glad." Maybe there was hope of an understanding between them, after all.

But he didn't return the smile. Instead, he looked at the newspaper articles she had been examining. "If this guy does these killings remotely, it might suggest a certain type of psychology."

Claire was too excited about this deduction to care about Sylar's rebuff. "How so?" she asked.

"A lack of direct confrontation might suggest someone who is usually very introverted and passive—someone who doesn't like—or maybe fears—interactions with people. Therefore, his powers allow him to indulge in his pleasures, but from a distance."

"That makes sense. Hey," Claire said, excited, "give me that picture you drew."

Sylar pulled the paper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. Claire looked at the man Sylar drew carefully. The man's back being turned in the picture made it a challenge, but Claire got an idea.

"This guy is an introvert, like you said, but not by choice," Claire told Sylar.

"How do you know?"

"I can't be entirely sure from looking at his back, but from what I can tell, this is not a handsome man. He's short and stumpy, judging by the way his clothes fit him. And from what I can see of his brow and nose, they're kinda broad and…" Claire tried to find the most accurate and euphemistic way to saying it, "unpleasing to look at. I doubt he's got a gorgeous face."

"Very good! Definitely not the type of guy a pretty girl like you would go out with, right?" Sylar said, a bit of nastiness in his tone.

But Claire wasn't about to be put down by someone like Sylar. "If he's killing people, then probably not. It's a personal preference. You understand."

Sylar laughed humorlessly. "I should."

Claire's heart fell. He hated her now, she could see that. She didn't know why he had bothered to stay, but she did need his help and she would take it as long as he'd be willing to give it.

She sighed. "So now that we have a…profile for this guy," she began, trying to think of the terminology she'd heard on crime dramas, "what's our next move?"

Sylar shrugged. "Try to track him down, I guess. Figure out how those girls would have met him—and try to find out how he's doing it."

Claire looked at the articles again, scanning them. "From what I read in the article before, all the women worked within ten miles of each other." She frowned. "But for different companies. Janet Redelmeyer worked for a place called Positronics. Lisa Laricey worked for a law firm. Lori Dunkirk worked for Willow Leaf Publishers. If they all worked for different places, how would the guy have met them all?"

Sylar shook his head. "Perhaps they all belonged to a club of some sort, or maybe they all shopped at the same store." But then he got an idea. "They all work in the same building." He told Claire. "That is, I'm willing to bet they do. It might be a huge, multi-story office building, and each of the companies the victims worked for was on a floor, or occupied a suite."

"And so, someone who worked in the building with them saw them, knew them, and did it."

"So maybe the guy I drew worked with them."

"Right!" Claire exclaimed brightly. "So we just need to find out where all these companies are located."

Sylar couldn't help but be amused at her enthusiasm. "I'll go check the internet and see what I can find," he said, and promptly got up and left that wing of the library.

Sylar returned a few minutes later with good news. All three companies were indeed in the same building—a giant monstrosity in the downtown district of Portland.

"Awesome!" Claire let out yet another cheery exclamation and jumped out of her chair. "So now we just need to head down there and scope it out."

"No, we don't," Sylar said, towering over her.

"What? Why?" Claire asked him.

"Because we have no idea who we're looking for, or where in the building. For all we know, he's moved on to greener pastures," he noted the sick look Claire got when he used that metaphor. "Even if we could find the guy, we can't exactly go up to him and demand he tell us how he did it. There's no evidence we could possibly have right now. We first need to figure out how he's doing this. Then, if you insist on confronting him, at least we can shake him up by revealing that we know his secret."

Claire opened her mouth to protest, but then decided against it and nodded in concession. Sylar was right. At least, she figured he was. She supposed he was looking at it from his own perspective, how he'd feel if someone knew his secret and confronted him with it.

"Ok. But how do we find that out?"

"We have to read the police reports; autopsy, crime scene details, that sort of thing."

"And where do we find those?"

"Well," Sylar said, a dangerous look in his eye. "I know where, but it would mean dirtying up that clean slate you want me to have so much."

Claire's face fell. "You mean, breaking into the police department and looking through their files."

"Exactly."

Claire looked away, her arms crossed over her. She didn't like the idea of breaking the law, even though she knew that superheroes had to do it all the time for the "greater good." Finally, she sighed and nodded her head.

"So do we go now?"

"No no no. We have to go late tonight, after the building has been closed up…or is at least a little less populated."

"How do we get in?"

Sylar smiled. "Thanks to all of my 'hard work,' I have several abilities to choose from, you know. I'm sure I can find a method that's both stealthy and effective."

Claire gave him a worried look. Before, Sylar seemed to be trying to avoid talking about his abilities and how he got them, but now he seemed to be doing everything he could to remind her of the fact that he had murdered in cold blood again and again. But she tried to remain focused. They decided on breaking into the police department around 2 in the morning.

They drove back to the hotel, the car as quiet as a grave. When the finally got there, Claire was out of the car before Sylar had even put the car in "park." She needed to get away from him in the worst way.

"Since we have some time to kill before our job tonight," Claire told him, walking toward the building, "I'm going to get some rest."

Sylar stood by the car. "Fine with me. I'll see you tonight." With that, he got back into the car and drove away.

Claire watched the blue mustang gather speed and zip back out onto the road. Feeling broken, she walked up to her room and lay down on the bed. This had been a mistake. It was a terrible, awful, horrible mistake that she had made. How could she have left her family to take on the ridiculous and impossible task of reforming a serial killer? He didn't want to be reformed, she saw now. He just wanted her to give in to him, and when he was done with her she was sure he'd find a way of disposing of her. Why had he even bothered to save her life? Claire pressed her head deeper into the pillow and told herself that she would make a bet with anyone that Sylar was regretting doing that now.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

Claire would have won that bet. Sylar was driving through the city, actually feeling angry for the first time in a while. When he was busy acquiring powers he felt so cool, almost scientific. He was doing the job of evolution, the "survival of the fittest." But now he had joined forces with one whom he had once marked as being "unfit," and she expected him to think just like her, automatically. He had to _care_ for the world. He had to show _compassion_ for the women that were killed. And he had to be _patient_. _She_ would decide when—or if—they were ever going to have sex again.

Sylar knew the word for men like him, although he always considered himself too refined to use it: "pussywhipped." He had allowed a beautiful woman to dictate what he did, where he went. He had Petrelli at his mercy, for God's sake! Just one slice of the head, and he would have tapped into such incredible power…

But then, _she_ had to come in, all tears and bravery, and put a gun to her head and guilt him into saving her. Then it was all a blur, and before he knew it, he had been hired to be a do-gooder. He might as well have become a firefighter, saving people's beds and rescuing kittens. A least he would have been paid for it.

And all that crock about not really being alive until you sacrifice yourself for someone else! He must have been out of his mind to believe that.

But…he knew Claire believed it. He remembered her tackling him with all the strength she had to save the life of the other girl he thought was her. And she really had pulled the trigger that night; that was no staged event. She really _could_ have died, in order to save Petrelli. Even with these murders in Portland; once Nakamura had given her a brand new car and all that money, she could have skirted off and lived a life of idyll and pleasure; Sylar knew plenty of people that would have done that. But no, Claire believed in this "Way," this force for good that she was sure she was a part of. And she was doing her best to make Sylar believe it, too. That even he, a hardened killer who had brutally took the lives of others, who seemed so far from ever really being repentant, was a part of a greater plan for good.

Sylar had finished his musings when he saw the sign for the interstate. Just a few more miles, and he could abandon all of this silly detective play he'd been forced to engage in. Just one more mile, and he could go back to being Sylar…the _real_ Sylar. He'd keep collecting powers, more and more, and then…well, he'd have a plan by then. He didn't need redemption, didn't need to feel, didn't need Claire.

He slammed on the accelerator. He was almost there. He could turn onto the interstate…

But at the last minute he swerved back to the left, inciting a few angry honks from other drivers. He went to the next light, made a u-turn, and went back the way he came.

"Damn her," he swore to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

When Claire opened her eyes again, she hadn't even realized that she had fallen asleep. But she looked at the clock on the table, which read 6:00. She'd been asleep for about seven hours. She got up and stretched herself, and wondered what to do next. There were still eight hours left to go before she and Sylar were to break into the police files and try to find out more information about the murders.

She looked over at the adjoining door and felt a pang of anxiety. Was he in there? Did she _want_ him to be? She walked through the hallway and knocked, got no answer, then tried the door and found it locked. Frowning, but trying to tell herself that it was a good thing Sylar either wasn't there or not answering, she went to the window with a view of the parking lot and pulled back the curtain. The mustang wasn't there, so he must have still been out.

"Great," she said out loud. "I'm stranded and have no idea where my partner is." She pulled on her jacket and went down to the lobby, and asked the clerk if he knew of a place to eat within walking distance. He recommended a diner about a mile up the road and, thanking him, she followed his advice and went there.

It felt weird to be eating by herself, and Claire couldn't help but feel lonely, sitting in the booth, picking at her burger and fries. She thought of her life a year ago, and if she were here then, it would have been so different. She might have been with her family—her mother prattling on about Mr. Muggles, Lyle stealing fries off of her plate, her father silent but smiling. She might have been with her friends—Jackie talking up a storm about nothing, Denise leaning on her hand and watching the motor-mouth in a mix of awe and amusement. She might have even come here with Zach, him shy and nervous, her teasing him relentlessly but good naturedly.

Claire looked back and realized what a full life she had. Now, she had nothing. Even the one person she had now didn't want to have anything to do with her. The sort of life she dreamed of was "inferior" to him. To him, it was a blessing to be a freak, to be alienated and ostracized, to bear the burden of saving the world and its inhabitants. Accepting her ability, she was beginning to realize, was like accepting the death of a loved one. She dealt with it, but it still hurt. All the time.

She looked down at her plate of half-eaten food, and, unable to just throw it away, asked the waitress for a box and the check when she saw her again. Then she walked back to the hotel, and when she got there, flopped down on the bed again. She had already spent most of the day sleeping, but she didn't care—there was nothing else to do. She turned to face the wall, feeling the tears welling in her eyes. She wiped them away, shut her eyes tightly, and forced herself to sleep.

She was awakened again by the sound of a knock coming from the outside door. Still half-asleep, she rolled off the bed and answered it. It was Sylar.

He stared at her. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You look terrible. Your eyes are red, and your face looks drawn."

Claire wasn't in the mood for concern from her serial killer partner. "Was there something you needed?" she asked, heedless of how her tone might sound.

"No. I just wanted you to know that I already looked at the police files," he said, walking into her room.

Claire was shocked. "You-you already went? I thought we were going to wait until it was late."

Sylar cocked an eyebrow. "Claire, it's midnight. I just came back from there. Granted, I went a little early, but I thought of a great way for me to get what we needed, and seeing as how you didn't really want to have to do it, and I didn't really need you there, I figured I'd spare you the trouble."

Claire was speechless for a moment. Then she looked at his person. "Well, where are they?"

"I didn't need to steal them. I have eidetic memory."

"Huh?"

"Eidetic memory. It means that I only have to read something once, and I can remember it permanently. Some goes with pictures. It's…the gift I got from that waitress." That last sentence seemed to come out with a little more humility.

Claire nodded. "So what did you learn?" she asked, inviting Sylar to sit on the bed, while she sat in the chair by the window.

"Most of it we already knew. The police could find no prints, no DNA, no witnesses who saw anyone entering or exiting the apartments, and no signs of forced entry. The only person—_there_—who could have done it was the victim herself in each case."

Claire sighed. "This just keeps getting better."

"The autopsy reports were more interesting. They…found stuff, but they couldn't explain how it would have gotten there."

Claire had that sick feeling again from earlier, but she swallowed it back and asked, "what did they find?"

"Well, the first woman, Janet Redelmeyer, the one with a hole cut out of her? They found minute traces of rust in the wound, like it was done with an old, metallic object. But what really puzzled them was the shape of the wound. Usually, something like that would be done with a large knife, perhaps a sword if you were indulgent. But the angle and position of the wound suggests…" Sylar trailed off.

"Suggests?" Claire encouraged.

"Suggests a scissor-like cut. The coroner had speculated on certain types of surgical tools that could have done the job, but those are only used by very specific trades of medicine. And again, Janet Redelmeyer was by herself, and they found no tools like that."

Claire grimaced. "Well, even if she had the tools to do it, I'd think it would be very hard to sit still long enough to cut yourself open like that—pretending, of course, that she killed herself."

Sylar nodded. "And that's the other thing that the report stated. Judging by morbidity and rigidity, Janet Redelmeyer died rather swiftly. If there was someone there actually cutting a neat hole into her, it would have taken much longer to do so than her body suggested."

Claire was already seriously disturbed by it all, but she was still confused as to how someone would be able to do this. "What about the other…Lisa Laricey?"

"Her arms, legs, and her head were separated from her body. Again, her morbidity and rigidity suggest that she died rather quickly, but to actually tear someone limb from limb would require a little more time to do so."

Claire's face contorted again with a thought. "What about the…breaks? Clean? Ragged? Bloody?"

"Clean. Very clean. She was just torn."

Claire's head seemed to go very murky for a moment. Sylar had thrown a lot of information at her, and she felt like she was in overload. But, gradually, three words came to mind, relating to the three cases: _paint, scissors, torn_.

"Sylar," Claire said slowly. "What can be painted, cut with scissors, and torn?"

"I don't know. A lot of things, I—". Then it came to him. "Paper! In my drawing, the man was holding a piece of paper!"

"_That's_ how he's doing it!" Claire exclaimed. "Somehow, the piece of paper comes to represent the victim, and he does things to the paper to destroy it: tearing it, cutting a hole in it, painting it until it loses its shape!"

"It's almost like astral projection," Sylar said in wonderment. "As if his spirit is committing the murders, while his body remains far away and evidence free."

"And Lori Dunkirk wasn't his last murder," Claire realized. "You drew the future. He's going to kill again."

Sylar smirked. "That's where the reconnaissance you were hoping for comes in," he said. "Now that we know how he's doing it, we need to know who we're looking for."

"And prevent it from happening again."

"Right, Chief."

Claire couldn't help but grin at Sylar's use of the nickname "chief" for her. In a twisted sort of way, she felt that they were becoming a team—each of them contributing to a conclusion. They had really done a great job just then, even though there was still much to do.

Claire stood up from the chair in excitement. "So tomorrow we'll go to that office building and look around—just look around. See if we can point out our man."

Sylar nodded. He wasn't sure if he liked this "perky" Claire who was so gung-ho about solving crimes. But at least they were both getting focused on the case and not so much on each other and what was happening between them…or not happening. Sylar still felt humiliated from the night before, and while he had learned his lesson now and was going to keep a distance, he still didn't want to get into a situation where he was tempted.

But Claire thwarted that. "That was such good news that my appetite's back. Do you want to get something to eat?" she asked him.

Sylar frowned. "It's close to one now. Aren't you tired?"

"I've been sleeping all day actually, and I'm sick of it. Are you…tired?" Claire tried to ask as casually as she could. She had to admit that part of her was hoping that he'd be hungry, or at least able to eat, so that she wouldn't have to be alone anymore. Any company would be good now, even if it was Sylar.

Sylar shrugged casually. "I could eat. I haven't eaten all day, so I probably should at some time."

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

"You don't eat much, do you?" Claire asked him. They were at the very same diner she had been to hours before. They had sat down to eat, she ordering a spaghetti dinner, he a small dish of fruit.

"Depends on who you're comparing me to. I think I eat enough for me."

"Did you always have such a small appetite?"

Sylar rolled his eyes. She was trying to "get to know him" again. But he decided to give in for once.

"I probably had a bigger appetite before. But with the telekinesis, I don't need to do as much physical activity as I once did. Hence, less of a need for calories to burn."

Claire smirked. "I wish that was the case for me."

"You look fine from where I am," Sylar blurted out, and regretted it instantly afterwards.

He felt grateful that Claire didn't seem to notice what he had said. Her eyes were turned away, distant.

"What is it?" he asked.

Claire looked up. "I was just thinking about my family. We used to go to places like this together. And now I've lost that."

Sylar felt a bit of sympathy for her, which surprised him. But he tried to cover it with an amused snort of laughter and said, "Oh? Is that all?"

Claire looked shocked for a moment, then seemed to remember who she was talking to and shrugged. "I miss them. Despite my dad's dishonesty, they were wonderful parents…and a brother. I won't ever have that again." Then she turned her attention to Sylar. "Don't you miss your parents?"

Sylar shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like talking about his family. He was reminded of the days when he was Gabriel Gray, a nobody. His parents had made him a nobody. In fact, that was the first thing out of his mouth to Claire before he even realized it.

Her mouth hung open as if he'd used the dirtiest word in the book. "How can you say that about them? They gave you life."

"And it was a dull, empty, meaningless life. My mother never failed to remind me of that."

"What did she do?"

Sylar looked away. "She never abused me, or insulted me. It was the little things. Like, whenever she'd visit the shop I worked in, she'd always say, 'This place is pathetic. You can do so much better' or, 'You're too smart to do something so worthless. Fixing watches will never make you special.'"

"But were you happy fixing watches?" Claire asked.

Sylar glowered. "What does it matter now?" he asked. "I'm never going to do it again."

"But were you?" she pressed.

"I wouldn't be happy doing it now. Not with all I've done and seen. But then…I guess I felt like I was good at it. And it gave me a certain measure of satisfaction when I was able to find the problem and fix it. The only thing that made me miserable was hearing my mother tell me that what I did was worthless. I went into the family business, after my father," Sylar said, now staring off in the distance. "My mother thought my father was a zero, but she always thought I could be special. It was her constant hope that I would live up to those dreams she had for me."

"So that's why you've done what you've done. You're trying to live up to your mother's dream for you," Claire stated.

Her analysis brought Sylar back to reality. He was suddenly angry. "Who do you think you are—a goddamn psychologist?" he practically shouted, shooting up from his seat. "I didn't ask for your evaluation. I don't need it! My family is dead and the person I was is dead and this here," he exclaimed, hitting his chest, "is all that's left. Accept it!" With that, he got up and walked out of the diner, leaving several shocked and upset patrons, including Claire.

But she recovered in enough time to go after him. Flinging a twenty dollar bill on the table, she flew out of the diner behind him.

"Sylar! Sylar wait!" she called. She could barely see his outline in the night, and she ran after him as fast as she could. She reached out her arm and grabbed the end of his sleeve and held on. He could do his worst, she decided, but she wasn't going to let go.

But he did stop, and turn around to face her. "Why won't you leave me alone?" he snapped.

Claire's eyes burned, but she was determined to hold back tears. "I'm sorry that I…upset you. But I'm trying to figure you out. I haven't ever met anyone like you, and what you've done…disturbs me. I'm just trying to make sense of it."

Sylar laughed bitterly. "When are you going to realize that you can't 'figure everything out'? People do terrible things, Claire. I'm not the first or last to fall into that category. It's _human nature_. You keep hoping that all of a sudden I'll feel guilty and repentant for what I've done, and when that doesn't happen you cry like a little girl. I'll be honest with you—I may _never_ feel sorry for the crimes I've committed. You're just going to have to deal with that." With that, he turned and stalked back to the hotel.

Claire stood there in the dark, for a long time, her mind feeling empty and full at the same time. Then, slowly, she followed the path Sylar had taken.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sylar tossed that night. He knew he was feeling guilty, but he couldn't understand why. Why should he care if Claire was hurt by the things he had said? She deserved to hear it. She pushed too much, expected too much. Wasn't it enough that he broke into the police department and got her that information? Why couldn't she just focus on the case instead of trying to get to know him?

At seven, he was out of bed and getting dressed. They were going to the office building, so he decided to wear something that looked a little more…professional. A white button down shirt and black slacks. He didn't have a tie or a suit jacket, so that would have to be enough. He shaved and slicked back his hair, then looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered if he looked like a young professional.

Then he wondered if he should go to see her through the hallway, or the outside door. After thinking it over for a few moments, he decided on the hallway. He was about to knock on the door to Claire's room when the door turned for itself, and there she was, attired in navy blue pinstripe slacks and a lighter blue button down shirt. Her hair was in a side ponytail.

"I was just about to see if you were ready. From the looks of it, you are," she said, unsmiling. She turned and walked back into her room, then walked out the front door.

Curious, and a little taken aback, Sylar followed.

Claire did the driving, and when they arrived at the building, she found the garage and paid for all day parking. She walked into the building with a confidence that Sylar hadn't seen before, even from her. He simply followed.

He was a little behind her, and by the time he got off the elevator he had seemed to have lost her. He turned around a corner, feeling anxiety get to him a little, and found with a small measure of relief that she was sitting on a bench against the wall, legs crossed and with a determined look on her face. He walked over to her and sat down.

She seemed to be looking for their "perp," but not very well, Sylar had to admit. She kept noticing the well-dressed, handsome, built businessmen, passing by in a flurry. He felt a bit of jealousy, but told himself that her flaw was her superficiality, not anything to do with him.

Sylar leaned over and whispered to her, "You're looking at the wrong guys. We're not looking for someone you'd notice; we're looking for someone you wouldn't."

At first Sylar assumed she was ignoring him, but then he heard her whisper, "You're right. Force of habit."

They sat there for about fifteen minutes, people coming and going in regular intervals, but no one fitting their profile. At last Claire turned her head to one side and saw a dark, baggy uniform, similar to the clothes the man in the picture was wearing. Her eyes grew wide and she was about to nudge Sylar, but then realized that the person she was seeing was a woman—a janitor. Her heart raced and she had an idea.

She poked him with her elbow. "Hey, let's go to the bathroom."

Sylar raised an eyebrow. Was this her way of telling him she wanted to be alone with him? This wasn't really the time. "Together?" he asked.

Claire nodded fervently. "I think I have an idea of who we might be looking for. Who works in a multi-office building, wears ugly, formless clothes, and is inconspicuous?"

Sylar smiled in recognition. "Janitors."

"Yes, and I'm willing to bet we might be able to find them in the lavatory and wastebasket areas. Come on," she said, getting up.

They ended up searching each and every lavatory on every floor, every area for refuse, and still nothing. They were about to give up when at last they reached the lobby area and saw one janitor, cleaning out the trash bin by the elevator.

Sylar saw him first, as he was in front, and as soon as he did he grabbed Claire and flung her behind him. She was about to protest when he put his finger to his lips and pointed discreetly to the man across the way.

"Damn!" Claire whispered. "I'm glad we took the stairs down."

"As am I," Sylar agreed. He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his drawing. Using his telescopic vision, he focused in on the figure across the way and magnified him, studying him carefully.

"That's him," Sylar whispered definitively.

"How do you know?"

"The broad, ugly brow and nose you were describing. He's got them."

Claire looked around Sylar's arm at the man. Her vision wasn't as good as Sylar's, so she had to take his word for it, but knowing she was just a few yards from the killer made her shudder. She backed away from the wall and into the stairwell.

Sylar walked after her. "We need to follow him. Find out where he lives."

Claire nodded. "It's only the morning, though. We're going to be here for a while."

"Probably. But there's no other way. And somehow, we need to stay close to him without him knowing we're there."

"So…we hide in the stairwell?"

Sylar looked at her in that smug, dangerous way that unnerved her. "It's got a good view, it's secluded, and little-used. It's the best place for us to be together."

Claire felt ill. Did he have to say "together?" But, they didn't really speak too much after that. She sat on the stairs while he stared out of the window. The hours actually passed pretty quickly, and just two seconds after she had looked at her watch she heard him say, "He's moving! We gotta go!"

Claire leapt to her feet and looked out of the window with Sylar. The man, still in his work clothes, was exiting the building with a bag over his arm. They burst through the door, and, now out on the lobby floor, tried to hurry out of there as fast as they could while not appearing suspicious. They couldn't afford to lose him now.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

Today was his half day, and while most would be thrilled, he wasn't. He'd have to find ways of occupying his time. Maybe he'd call his mother. She was living in a nursing home in Dardanelles, their home town. She was beginning to lose her wits. But she always asked him now, "are you staying away from those dirty little girls?"

He was forty eight years old now. He'd been "staying away" for thirty years. But even in her feeble-minded way, his mother served to help him remember why he had done the things he'd done. So he'd smile and say, "Yes, of course, mama. They don't fool me at all."

It was his mother that kept him from college.

Not being able to bear the thought of her only child leaving her for school, plus complaining that she didn't have the money to send him, his mother begged, pleaded, threatened him to stay with her.

"How will I do without my baby?" she asked him. "If you love your mama, you'll stay."

And so, after graduation, still under the oppressive weight of all the mourning for Jenny Winters, he stayed in town, got a full time job at the hardware store, lived with her. Then finally, when she had a stroke, there was no one there to care for her and he had to put her in the nursing home. Even with most of her strength and sense gone, she was still telling him, "Stay away from those girls! They may be pretty, they may be smart, but they're evil! They all deserve to be punished!"

To fulfill his mother's wish, he moved to the city and did exactly what she said—he punished. But he only did it when necessary, when the girl was asking for it or he just couldn't help himself. Taking the job as a janitor, he was in a good, inconspicuous place, yet a good place to meet women and earn their trust.

Lisa Laricey had been trusting, and even pretended to be kind. She was a paralegal, and used to regal him with stories of her cases when she saw him and he asked how her day was. He had long been pondering writing her name down, but he decided not to for a while. That was, until the day that he heard her talking to some colleagues and she mentioned she liked to talk to the "poor man who does the cleaning" that he decided to do some repairs.

He had been too tired that day to think of something creative, so he just tore the paper with her name on it.

The police were really up in arms now—the second person who was murdered in a mysterious way and who had worked in that building. But they never suspected him. They asked the people she worked with—the ones in suits who mattered. But not him. So he felt very free, but he also knew he had to be cautious. He had been proud that he had held off so long before Lori, but he couldn't help it that time. He could see right through her fake cheerfulness and into her soul.

That was the gift his mother had given him. She too, could see through all the fake kindness the other women had showed her when his father died. She just held her head high and knew what sort of lying sluts they all were. And she made sure her son knew too.

Yes, he decided. He'd call his mother this afternoon. It would make him feel better after having to hear about Lori Dunkirk the entire week.

He was almost to his apartment, which was only a few blocks away from work so he didn't have to drive. A few times he felt like he was being watched. He'd look back and see nothing but blank-faced pedestrians behind him. When he got to the building, however, he was certain that he heard a suspicious sound and looked back towards the way he came, only seeing, in the shadows, a man embracing a woman passionately in the alleyway. Grunting in disgust, he walked into his home. Horny idiot, he thought of the man who had been lured in by the harlot he was holding. He'd be done in so fast he wouldn't know what hit him.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sylar released Claire from his embrace and looked down at her, then back onto the street where the building was. "We know where he lives now. Good." He walked back onto the street.

Claire slowly emerged from behind him. She had been shocked when Sylar had done that, but she soon realized why he had. They had been following their suspect for several blocks, trying to keep a steady pace but not follow too close to alert him he was being followed. They were nearly home free when the man looked back in their direction and Sylar had practically leapt upon her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his head in her neck. She had given a slight yelp, but heard him whisper. "Just stay this way for a few minutes." They did, and then when they thought it was safe, let go of one another.

Her head feeling a bit cloudy, Claire followed Sylar back up the street to where their car was parked. They got back to the car, and without speaking, drove back to the hotel.

"Now that we know where he's staying, we can keep tabs on him. But we need to be able to do it stealthily and consistently. How?" Sylar thought aloud, pacing the floor of his room.

Claire was sitting on his bed, staring into space. She tried to focus on the case, but she was still thinking of the embrace. Sylar had smelled…nice. It seemed to be a mix of his own natural scent and the soap he used, which had been delicious. He had held her tightly, the way he had when they had made love the first time. She knew that if she had turned her face just a few inches up in his direction, they might have kissed.

"Claire?" The sound of Sylar's voice broke the daydream.

She looked up, startled. "What?"

"I was saying that we need to bait him. You be the bait, and I set up camp nearby and watch his every move. The only problem is that I need to somehow move quickly into that apartment building, but I don't know how."

Claire grinned. "I know how." Ignoring Sylar's questioning look, she went to the hotel phone, and dialed. After a few seconds, he heard her say, "Mr. Nakamura, please. Tell him this is Claire Bennet."

Now that they knew his work schedule, they waited until he was at the office to check out of the hotel and into the new apartment the next day. Claire's call turned out to be a lucky charm. Mr. Nakamura used his connections to rent an apartment in the building to his two operatives.

The plan was perfect. Sylar and Claire went over it again and again, making sure they knew exactly when and where to execute each move.

The night before their plan went into motion, Claire was still worried. "Are you sure you can fool him?"

Sylar looked a little hurt by her insinuation. "Of course. If Ah could do a Texas accent and fool yo' mama," he said, with a Southern drawl, "I'm sure I can to-tally do a California accent," he said, this time with "surfer influences."

Sylar didn't bother to ask if Claire could pull off her side of the job. She was beautiful, and disarmingly confident. This was going to work.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCC

He was coming home from yet another day of work, but this time he felt energized. The next time he went out, he decided, he would get the name of a cheeky little brunette who worked at the grocery store that he'd seen before, and she'd given him her name in that high-pitched, "valley girl" voice that he'd found so annoying. Well, he knew what to do. He'd make sure that voice was put to rest.

As he was walking in, he noticed a tall man with dark hair, struggling with a bunch of boxes. He was out of breath, and soon dropped one, cursing quietly to himself. Feeling sorry for the stranger, he walked over.

"Hi there, friend, you look like you could use some help," he told the younger man.

The man looked up, eyes as dark as his hair. "Oh yeah man, that would be awesome, thank you." He talked like he had spent a good part of his life on the beach. Indeed, in his bright green shirt and neon orange cap, he wore more bright colors than was usual for this part of the country.

So he took some of the boxes from the stranger, and asked where he was moving in. Turns out, the new guy was going to be just across the hall from him.

"Really? I will be? Oh that's good, man. Now I don't feel like I'm putting you out too much," the stranger said.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," he smiled. There were only a few boxes and a few pieces of furniture, and so between the two of them it was done fairly quickly and easily.

The stranger had a cooler, and once they had moved the small futon into the living room of the empty apartment, he was invited to sit down and have a beer with him, which he accepted.

The stranger handed him a cold can and then held out his hand. "I'm Noah," he said with a smile.

He took his new neighbor's hand and shook it. "I'm Paul," he replied.

Paul looked around the apartment. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, Noah, but you don't really have enough to fill this place up."

Noah sighed deeply, and Paul had a feeling there was a story behind this, but he didn't want to pry. Surprisingly, however, Noah didn't seem to mind telling it.

He threw back some of his beer and leaned against the couch. "Oh man, I know it. I had more stuff, but I just broke up with my girl and now she's got most of it. I'm just trying to get my life back together, you know?"

Paul nodded. He felt very sympathetic, even though he didn't know this man.

Noah continued, again much to his surprise. "Four years, man. I gave her four years of my life, and then she ups and dumps me because I don't make enough money. Man, I loved her too, you know? You think that would be enough, but it ain't, man. It just ain't for women."

Paul nodded, staring. He was feeling a kinship to Noah. Granted, the younger man would definitely not know what it was like to be ugly and unloved, but he'd had his heart broken all the same.

Noah looked at him closely, then laughed. "Aw man, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be telling you all this mess. You were just trying to do the neighborly thing, and then I start telling you my life story."

"Oh no, no, that's fine! It really is!" Paul tried to convince him. "I just…I know how you're feeling."

"Oh, well it happens, I know, man. Doesn't hurt any less though. And…" Noah began, getting off of the sofa to throw away his now-empty can. "To make it worse, I haven't found a job yet, and I know I'm going to run out of money soon. Man, you never think things like this will happen to you."

Paul's heart went out to Noah. He hadn't known him long, but he knew he had to do something to help. This was all the fault of that selfish, greedy bitch that had dumped him. If only he could ask her name! But that wouldn't be appropriate right now. But…he did know one way he could help.

"Well, maybe I can help you with that. I work in a big office building. I'm a janitor," Paul said, with a certain measure of humility, but Noah didn't seem to notice. "If you want, I could take you there tomorrow. There's lots of companies there—what do you do?"

"Really man? Well, I have a bachelor's in computing, and I've done tech support in my last job. You think there's anything like that there?"

"I'm sure there is," Paul said with a smile.

Noah had an excited, almost childlike look on his face. "Paul, man, you're a lifesaver! I'm so glad I moved in here!"

"Me too," Paul said, finally feeling like he finally had a friend. "Believe me."


	4. Chapter 4

He waited until late that night, after he was sure Paul would be asleep, and he picked up Claire from the hotel. On their way, Claire was eager for all the details.

"Noah? You told him your name was Noah?" Claire said, surprised.

Sylar nodded sheepishly. "It was the only name I could think of." Claire just grinned.

"So…no doubt in your mind? He's the one we're looking for?" she asked.

"I'm pretty sure. He seemed _very_ interested in my story of heartbreak and betrayal. He looked especially dark when I mentioned how she took a lot of my things, and I was left without a job."

"Wow, cue the violins," Claire said, impressed. Sylar was an excellent actor. It probably came with the job; shifting personalities, stories, accents.

"Tomorrow he's taking me to the office building, so I can find a job. I'll get a handle on what his schedule is like, and then…you'll do your thing."

"Oh don't worry," Claire said with a sly smile. "I will."

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

The next day he met up with his new neighbor, who was wearing a business suit, had his resume, and looked nervous. He took Noah to the building, showed him some of the offices, and apologized that he really didn't know anyone personally that could be a way in.

"Aw man, don't worry about it," Noah said in his casual, laid-back way. "You've done so much for me already; how could I complain?"

Paul smiled. "Well, I hope it works out for you. But I've got to start work." He began to walk away.

"Hey Paul! Wait a sec!," Noah asked. "Are you…gonna be down here in, say, an hour? If I have good news, I'd want to share it with you."

"Yes; I'm usually down here on the floor for most of the morning, then I start emptying the office baskets around eleven. So if you're done before then, I'll be here," Paul smiled again.

Noah returned the smile. "Well. Wish me luck." he got on the elevator and left.

As Paul watched Noah leave, he couldn't help but think of the only other friend he'd had—besides Charles, if he really wanted to count him. That was how he was able to do away with Janet Redelmeyer—a striking redhead with long legs and big breasts who would have ruined his friend David's life if he hadn't intervened.

Janet and David both worked for Positronics together, and David was one of the few people who spoke to Paul when he saw him. Often David would bring him a cinnamon roll or candy when they had a party at his office, and he even helped Paul empty the trashcans one day when he back was hurting.

He was on the fifth floor where Positronics was housed, about to empty the trashcans and looking forward to talking to David, when he distinctly heard Janet's sour, husky voice.

"Why haven't you asked for that promotion, David? You know Rosenberg will give it to you."

"Because I don't know if I want to have that added responsibility, hon."

It was Janet and David. They were standing in the hallway, but were too engrossed in their argument to see him standing there.

He saw Janet fume and tap her foot in annoyance. "What do you mean, you don't want that responsibility? It means more money! Which means that we can finally buy that house we want!"

"I know how much you want the house, Janet," David replied. "But I'm not sure if I want to stay in the engineering department. I…I was thinking of going back to college and getting a degree in Computer Information Systems."

"What the hell are you talking about? That's only going to cost us more money and more time! You're good at what you do, David! Don't throw it away because you "think" you want to do something!"

With that, Janet stalked back into the office, paying no attention to Paul, who had been standing there. David sighed and followed after her, giving Paul a brief hello and handshake.

Paul knew he had to help his friend. He couldn't let David's life be ruined by a controlling, domineering bitch. So that night he wrote Janet's name down neatly, and thought of the perfect way to repair the problem.

"A woman with no heart should have a hole where it would be," Paul reasoned. And so he took out his old pair of scissors and cut a neat space right where the "n" in "Janet" had been.

After Janet had been found, David didn't come to work for several days, which annoyed him. He wanted to talk to him, to tell him…well, he wasn't sure now if he would have told David about his power, but it would have been nice to have someone to confide in.

Finally, after three weeks, he finally had the courage to go ask someone in the office, who told him that David had resigned a week ago and was moving back to his home state of Nebraska.

"Yeah," the man had sighed. "David really loved Janet. It hit him hard."

It hit Paul hard too. He lost his friend. And it was all that woman's fault.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sylar told Claire that if she got to the building between nine and eleven, she should run into him. They were in the apartment in the middle of the afternoon, Paul being at work at that point.

"I told him that one of the companies took my resume, and he looked like he was about to hug me," Sylar called to her from the bathroom.

"And the way I'm dressed, he's definitely going to want to tear me to pieces," Claire yelled back.

Claire was adding the finishing touches to the outfit she was going to wear. It was a little extreme, but she figured it would be easy bait. She stepped back and looked at herself in the mirror, then snorted. When she lived at home, her mother wouldn't let her leave her room, much less the house, dressed the way she was.

"Well? Let's see," Sylar said. The door opened and out she came. The moment he saw her, his eyes bugged out. He took a breath and let it out in stunted puffs.

"Dressed to kill, indeed," Sylar stated.

Claire smiled. "It's all part of the job."

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

Paul had just finished cleaning the glass doors and was about to empty the trash can nearest to the entrance when from outside he heard a wolf whistle and the sound of high heels sharply hitting the ground. A figure flashed by him, heedless of what might be in its way.

Annoyed, he looked back to see a young woman sauntering over to the directory set in the middle of the lobby. He silently appraised her. Golden blonde hair pulled back severely into a ponytail. Tight dark brown suede pants above brown stiletto heels. Her shirt—if you could call it that—was a white midriff halter. She wore a long brown leather jacket, which was now pulled back away from her waist as she had her hands on her hips, rocking back slightly on her heels and taking in the map. He could tell she was chewing gum by the way her jaws were smacking back and forth. Enticing. Sexy. Revolting.

He didn't want to have to do this again, especially so soon on the heels of his other…repair, but she was asking for it. He went up to her, pretending to be helpful.

"Are you looking for a particular office, miss?" he asked.

She looked at him coolly but still seemed to be a little taken aback by his ugliness. It was then that he noticed, on top of everything else, that she was wearing dark purple lipstick and eyeliner. She sighed in frustration. "I'm trying to visit my brother," she told him. "But…I never keep track of what's going on his life, and I can't remember the name of the office he's in."

"Oh, well there are many companies in this building, miss," he said, hiding the mounting contempt he was developing for her. "Perhaps if you called him--"

"I don't have his phone number, otherwise he'd drag his sorry butt down here and meet me," she interrupted, her jaws smacking away at her gum.

She was infuriating, arrogant, and probably a little vain. But she showed no signs of leaving.

"I think it begins with a 'P'. Posi-something," she said.

He gulped, but hoped it wasn't too prominent. "Positronics?" he suggested.

"Hey yeah! That's it! I knew it was the one where that girl who was killed a few months ago had worked."

That did it. He was going to get her name right then and there, no matter what it took.

But then, she made it easy for him. She said, "I have the worst memory about these things. I'm always saying to myself, Claire, you need to get your shit together." She punctuated this with a cackling laugh.

She stopped laughing and looked at him. "Thanks a lot for your help," she told him. "I'd probably be here for another two hours, looking at this freakin' sign."

He smiled. "You're welcome." _Whore_.

She smiled brightly and walked to the elevator. When the door had closed and he was alone, he quickly wrote down her name and continued with his day, savoring the feel of the paper in his pocket like a hot bullet.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

"It feels funny. Waiting for someone to kill me." Claire snorted. "Usually when I've known someone was about to try, I ran like hell."

"Yes. I remember that," Sylar replied, thinking of the first night they met. They were sitting in the bedroom of the apartment across from their killer, waiting for him to come home. Claire had since changed into a less suggestive outfit and took off the makeup.

Claire barked out a laugh and stared at the ceiling. "I remember when I first died."

Sylar was puzzled, but interested. "First? You mean, the airport wasn't the first time it happened to you?"

She shook her head. "No. Once, I woke up on an autopsy table, cut open."

"What did the coroner say?" Sylar asked, shocked.

"She had stepped out for a moment. She didn't see me regenerate."

"How did it happen?"

"A guy named Brody who went to my school tried to…force me. While I was struggling with him, I fell and something punctured my head. He dumped my body and ran. The police must have found it and they called for an autopsy."

Sylar felt a flash of anger run through him, which surprised him. He wanted to break the face of the boy who had done that to Claire. At one point, he might have been angry that a gift had been lost that could have been his—he might have even felt that the murder had been done in poor taste. But now, he was infuriated that someone would try to hurt her, then throw her away like she was nothing.

He tried not to show this, but he failed. "I hope you got revenge on him for what he did to you."

She smiled. "I did. I drove his car into a wall with him in the front seat. Not only was he badly injured, but my father also took his memory."

"Whew," was all Sylar could say. "If only all girls who had been forced by a boy could have done what you did."

"Yeah, if only," Claire agreed. "You know," she said, turning to him. "That's the funny thing about this case. There always seem to be plenty of reasons for women to hate men, but a man to kill because he hates women overall…that's a little more unusual."

Sylar shrugged. "I don't know how unusual it is. Women don't realize the power that they can have over men." He looked deeply into her eyes when he said that. "A man's world can be made…and broken…by his feelings for a woman."

Claire gazed at him. Was he admitting something? She didn't want to be here, at this point, with him. She turned her eyes away. "Well, it goes both ways," she told him. "Women build their lives around the men they love. I think it's what most women hope to do. That's what my mom did."

Sylar reached over and touched her cheek. "Is that what you hope to do someday, Claire?" he asked. They stared at each other, intensely.

He never got an answer, because they heard a door open in the hallway, then close. They both stood up, tense to the bone.

"He's home," Sylar whispered darkly.

Claire took in a shuddering breath. Her heart was pounding so loud that Sylar almost had to cover his hears to block it out.

"Looks like I'll be dying soon…again."

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

The entire way home he tried to think of how to kill that little blond tart he encountered at work today. He didn't want to do what he'd done before; he almost considered his repairs works of art. He liked to be creative, to have variety.

He took the piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at the name: Claire. The funny thing was, the name seemed almost inappropriate for the trollop he met. The name "Claire" seemed fitting more to an extraordinary woman, a woman of incredible personal strength. But there was no woman like that. He knew. Every time he tried, every time he opened himself, he was hurt. He sighed. It would have been nice to be loved. But it wasn't meant to be for him. This—the repairs he did—it was all he had. So he settled down to his work.

He racked his brains thinking of a way to do it. He sighed and looked out the window, watching the sun setting in the sky, like a dying flame.

Yes! That was it—flame! Fire. He'd burn it!

Giddy, he ran to the drawer and pulled out a lighter. Finding, with joy, that the lighter had just enough fluid in it, he clicked the knob and watched a flame spring up. Then, carefully, he moved the piece of paper to the flame.

He laughed with delight. "A hot time for a hot girl," he said to himself.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

"He's been in there for a while now," Claire whispered to Sylar. They had moved from the bedroom to the kitchen, in preparation for an attack if necessary.

"He might be trying to find a good way of doing you in," Sylar said, in such a scientific manner that Claire was a little unnerved.

She was feeling unnerved, and she was also feeling warm. The temperature seemed to have risen several degrees. Was it just the fear that was getting to her? She exhaled through her mouth and put her hand to her head, then realized that hand had smoke coming off of it.

"Sylar…" she said in a scared voice. He turned around to face her. There was smoke pouring off of her now.

She stared at him in horror. "Get away," she told him, just before she burst into flames.

Sylar covered his face with his hand, watching her body become enveloped in the fire. She was writhing, she dropped to the ground and started rolling around. Sylar ran to the bedroom, grabbed a blanket, and ran back to the kitchen, throwing it on her to stop the flame. He dropped to the ground next to her and patted her down with it, until all the flames were gone.

He was almost afraid to pull the cover away, but he brought himself to do it, and found that on the floor was a corpse, its flesh burned black. But then that same flesh began to turn peach-pink, changing in texture from brittle to smooth and shiny. Hair began growing again from the coal-colored and patchy skull. Eventually the corpse moved and faced him, the face re-structuring itself.

The eyes opened in the blackened face and looked at him. "Go get him," Claire said.

Sylar shot up and ran across the hall, pounding on the door. "Paul! Paul it's me! Open the door!" When there was no answer, Sylar used his telekinesis to bust the door down. There he found Paul, standing in the middle of the living room, a shocked look on his face.

Sylar looked at him, then down at the man's feet. There was something burning on the floor. Sylar rushed in, and using his freezing power, put out the fire.

Paul looked down at the now-frozen piece of paper, then at his neighbor. "Noah?" he asked, in shock. The next thing he knew, he was flying across the room, skidding across the floor and hitting his back against the wall dividing the living room from the kitchen.

"Why did you do it, Paul?" Sylar asked him.

Paul, his breathing ragged, stared up groggily at the tall man with the angry dark eyes. "She deserved it—she deserved it! She was so crude and promiscuous—I had to kill her so that she wouldn't hurt anyone!" he cried.

Sylar knelt down in front of him. "You couldn't stop at the first, could you?" he asked. "Once you had done it the first time, what was one more, and one more after that?"

Paul stared at the man who clearly was not what he had pretended to be. "Then you understand! You'll keep my secret, won't you, Noah? I only do it when I have to—you have to believe me!"

"We know about your power. And we're not going to let you do this again," a voice said from behind them. The two men looked up. It was Claire, sooty, and clothes badly torn and ragged, but whole, considering she had just been on fire.

The man looked terrified, but he pointed out, "You can't turn me in to the police. You've got no evidence! No one's going to believe that I can do this to a piece of paper and kill people."

Sylar grabbed the man by his collar and brought him to his feet. "We have our own way of dishing out justice," he said in almost a growl, "and I'm sure you can tell we've got just as much power as you do."

Paul stared into the tall man's eyes, feeling fear creep up his skull. "I'll do whatever you say. Just keep her," pointing to the filthy and disheveled Claire, "away from me!"

Sylar released him and turned to Claire. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Of course," she said simply. "It's me, after all."

Just then, while their attention was diverted, Paul skirted by them and out into the hall.

The two looked after their perp, then busted out of the apartment and into the hallway.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

Paul's chest felt like it was in a vise. He had to get away from them. That girl—she had been on fire, he saw it—and she lived! And Noah, he had power too! They were never going to let him get away with this. They would hunt him down.

He had gone thirty eight years, and had gotten away with it. He had gotten rid of the evil women that, by the curse of God, had been set on earth. He had done this part. But now it was all over.

Knowing they would be upon him soon, he got to the stairwell, and shut the door behind him. With trembling hands he pulled out his pen and paper from his pocket, and began to write. He looked at it, hoping it would do the trick.

Claire and Sylar had searched the entire floor, at last coming to the stairwell.

"He's probably left the building! We need to go!" Claire cried. Sylar nodded and pushed open the door to the stairs. What they saw stopped them in their tracks.

There was Paul, lying on the steps, his head severed from his body and lying a few feet away. In his left hand he held a piece of paper, in his right he held a smaller bit. Gently Sylar took the pieces of paper from his hands and put them together. The word on the paper read, _Paul_.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sylar put in an anonymous call, and he and Claire watched the police and forensics department examining the scene from the shadows on the street. They watched and were silent for so long that it was possible that each forgot the other was there.

Then Claire heard a voice next to her in the dark. "You need to shower. You smell like burnt flesh."

"What can I say? You bring it out in me," Claire retorted. To her surprise, she heard a genuine laugh.

"How does it feel to solve your first case, Chief?" he asked her.

She sighed deeply. "Not as good as I thought it would. I mean, I wanted to see him pay…but I didn't expect it to end like this."

"He didn't deserve what happened to him," came Sylar's deep voice.

"What? Sylar, he was a killer!"

"And so am I," Sylar argued. "And I've killed more, and done it more ruthlessly. But I was given a chance to change, and he wasn't."

Claire knew he couldn't see her, but she hoped he would hear her contention in her voice. "Sylar…I know that's true, but you were doing it because you thought you were bettering yourself. He just killed girls _because_ they were girls! That was their only crime, and it was a pretty lame crime to be killed for!"

"He killed because girls had hurt him, Claire. He was doing it because, in his mind, they'd just hurt him again."

Claire groaned in frustration. "It's not their fault if they were pretty, smart, and successful. They shouldn't have to pay because he was ugly and a failure."

Sylar was silent for a long time. Then, she heard him say, "You can't understand, Claire. You don't hate the face you see in the mirror. All your life you've been loved; people have been glad to love you. It doesn't come that easily for some."

The next sound Claire heard were footsteps walking away from where she was, getting softer in the distance.

After the police had finally left the scene and it was clear, she walked back into the building and up to the apartment. Sylar wasn't there, or at least she didn't notice him. She stripped off her clothes and got under the shower, allowing the water to wash the soot off of her body. She couldn't find her soap or shampoo, so she simply rubbed the water hard into her skin and hair, until the runoff became as black as night.

Thus cleaned, she wrapped a sheet she found in a box around herself and returned to the living room. She lay down on the futon, pulling the sheet tightly around her naked limbs. She had solved a crime, prevented more women from being killed, but it felt so empty. And she knew it was because of Sylar. She was sure he cared for her, in his own twisted sort of way, but it really didn't relieve her loneliness. He was right, she realized; she had been loved all her life and was used to being loved in a certain way. Sylar was incapable of it.

Tomorrow, once they headed out, she would call Peter. She would tell him where to meet her, and he would come pick her up. He would be glad to rescue her; that's what he did. And Sylar…well, she was sure Sylar didn't really want to be doing this anyway.

Getting up from the futon, still encased in the sheet, she fumbled around the scattered boxes until she found a paper and pencil. She sat down again and began to write a letter:

_Sylar,_

_I've tried very hard, and so have you, to make this work, but I think we both know that it won't. You were right about me. I'm just a pretty, sheltered girl who's been cared for all her life, and I don't have what it takes to deal with a lot of these things. I'm really sorry. I just hope that you'll keep working towards overcoming what you've done; you make a really good detective, and I think you can still do a lot of good in this world, even if I'm not there with you._

_This is for the best. Please don't come after me again._

_Yours,_

_Claire_

Claire slid the letter into the duffel bag that held her clothes, then lay back down on the futon. She looked up at the ceiling, an endless mass of holes upon holes. Then, hypnotized by them, she drifted off to sleep.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCC

For some reason, walking in the darkness, Sylar's mind returned to Katie Muller, the girl he lost his virginity to. He thought back to the moment right after she "paid" him, and she was pulling her clothes on.

"This was a pretty pathetic bargain, Gabriel," she told him, buttoning up her shirt. "Don't you have any self-respect?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he replied as he slid the glasses back onto his face. "But it doesn't matter. We both got what we wanted."

Katie laughed cruelly. "I got what I wanted, and this is the only time I'll have to pay for it. But you'll be paying for the rest of your life, Gabriel. You're just that type of guy."

Sylar remembers wanting to punch her in the face, but withholding because his father told him never to hit a girl. Instead, he tried to be brave. "I don't need anything from anyone. Remember, Katie, _you_ came to _me_."

"Ha, and it's the last time," she told him, lacing up her shoe. "And it's the last time for you too. I can look at you and know you're a loser. No other woman is going to waste her time on you."

Sylar threw the paper he'd written at her and shoved her out of his room as hard as he could, slamming the door tightly. He was furious, but not because of what she said, but because he believed her.

Now, walking alone in the darkness, Sylar saw that even when he killed, even when he had the upper hand, even when he had the power and made his victims scream and cower, he was still "paying for it." They had something he didn't, and the only way for him to get it was to murder. Katie had been right. He paid because he was never content the way people like her were.

But Katie had been wrong about something. She said that no woman would waste her time on him, and that was wrong. Claire was giving more than just her time; she was giving of herself. She left her family to redeem a man who, just a few months earlier, would have killed her in an instant. He had kidnapped, assaulted, and brutalized her, and she repaid him with her virginity, giving him a sense of completeness he had never felt before. He was derisive, unapologetic, manipulative. And yet she kept trying to know him, all of him, both light and dark.

He desperately wanted to go to her now, to tell her all of the things he'd been thinking, but he couldn't help but wonder if he was the last person she'd want to see. He kept walking, now his mind focused back to Paul. He couldn't believe it, but he really had felt sympathy for the homely janitor. He wondered if maybe Paul had had a Claire of his own, a woman whose incredible personal strength was matched by her beauty, if maybe he could have had the chance to reform as well. It was sad, and all of a sudden Sylar felt very lucky.

He was surprised to find that the first rays of light were streaking the sky. Smiling to himself, he returned home.

He opened the door cautiously to find Claire clean, fully dressed, and packing the last of her things. She turned around when she heard the door, and Sylar could tell she hadn't slept well. She looked tired and tense. But she smiled her sad smile and said, "I called Mr. Nakamura and told him we'd been successful—sort of. He wanted me to pass along a "congratulations" and a "thank-you" to you."

Sylar smirked. "Do I get a medal?" he quipped.

Claire didn't seem to notice his joke. "I'm ready to go as soon as you are," she told him.

"Where are we going next?"

She shrugged. "I honestly don't know. We'll just drive."

They were at an interstate truck stop in an hour, stopping at the food court for some breakfast. They were silent to one another as they tucked into their breakfast. Claire couldn't help but notice two strange things. One, Sylar was eating with much more gusto than he had done before, and two, it seemed like he kept wanting to say something, but then would stop himself. Claire was sure she knew what it was. He was trying to tell her that this arrangement wasn't going to work, and that he was leaving. She just hoped that on top of that, he wouldn't revert to his old ways; but, something told her that no matter what happened, he wouldn't.

In her pocket lay the letter that she had written for him. She was going to wait for an opportune time, when he wasn't looking. Then she'd leave it for him to see, while she set off by herself. She was going to leave him stranded without a car, but this was Sylar. He was resourceful; he'd get by.

She had been thinking of ways to get the letter to him without him seeing it, when his voice broke her train of thought. "Claire, there's something I need to tell you."

_Here it comes_, she thought. "Yes?"

"I wanted to tell you that…that I…appreciate all that you've tried to do for me," Sylar said, the words seeming to be very hard for him to get out.

Claire looked at him with a certain measure of distrust, but mostly with puzzlement. "I haven't really done anything, Sylar," was all she could say.

"Yes you have! You've…given so much of yourself, and I don't just mean those times we had been together," he said with almost a blush. Claire could feel a bit of an amused smile on her face, but she kept it away.

He sighed deeply. "What I'm trying to say is that—that I'm glad I came with you. I'm glad we're doing what we are. And that…that I hope you'll have patience with me. I know I'm dark and frightening sometimes, but it's just part of me, who I am now. I hope you can accept that."

Claire felt like the world had washed away and there were just the two of them, sitting together. And she felt like she had to have the answer. So she said the only word she knew to say: "Yes."

Sylar smiled, genuinely this time. The check came, and Sylar offered to pay it.

Thinking hard and fast, Claire made a decision. "I'll be right back," she told him.

Claire walked into the restroom, then slowly went to the mirror and looked at her face. Then she pulled the letter from the pocket of her slacks and looked at it. "I hope I'm doing the right thing," she said out loud to herself. Then with a few quick strokes, she tore up the letter and left it in the trash.

"So who's driving, Chief?" Sylar asked Claire as they made their way to the car.

"I am," Claire told him flatly. He just smirked as he got into the passenger seat. She started the engine and the car pulled back onto the highway, on its way to a new case.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

From across the street, he watched them drive away. He had been following them all this time, but soon, he'd let them follow him. And then, oh, what fun they'd all have together.

He smiled to himself. "Payback time."


End file.
